


NEIGHBORS

by GottaFlyAway



Category: One Direction (Band), Zayn Malik (Musician)
Genre: Abuse, Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Alternate Universe - Neighbors, Depression, Drugs, Gay, Loss of Parent(s), M/M, Mental Health Issues, Photographer Harry, Rain, Sad Zayn, School of Arts, Sexual Content, Smoking, Suicidal Thoughts, Violence, zarry stylik
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-08-20
Updated: 2016-10-29
Packaged: 2018-08-09 22:17:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 30,850
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7819366
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GottaFlyAway/pseuds/GottaFlyAway
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>At times, we all feel lonely. And each of us has different ways to numb that feeling.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> **ATTENTION**  
> This is a reworked story that I've published earlier, but later it was removed to improve and make some changes.
> 
> In the beginning, few changes were made, but if you've read this story before, it is still recommended to see this version, as there will be some amendments on the personalities and the past of the main characters.
> 
> Special thanks to the user under the name samatim for giving me the motivation to start writing this story again, with renewed power. Thank you for waiting. (◕‿◕)
> 
> This time I will post new chapters in a longer periods of time in order not to create pressure on myself. 
> 
> Don't know if somebody has read this message, but if so, thank you and I wish you a good reading. I hope this time everything will go better.

***  
  
Chapter 1.  
  
  
**_Harry's POV_**  
  
  
   My taxi stopped outside the old apartment building. I looked at the drops of water running down the glass of the car before I opened the door and crawled out. The cold air hit my lungs, from somewhere nearby came the smell of something fried. This is not surprising, because my apartment is in the area of cheap bars.   
  
   I looked around, there wasn't any living soul,  no sounds could be heard except from the working motor of my taxi. It made me feel even more lonely, if that was even possible.  
  
    I ran fingers through my long, wet, and now sticky hair and went to pick up my suitcase from the backseat of the car.   
  
  Driver looked at me, his eyes full of indifference. He's probably mad at me for being so slow, but he's too tired to say anything.  
  
   I pulled my suitcase outside, hitting it on the damp ground, creating a splash. Thanking the driver and giving him the money, I closed the car door and he drove off, neither saying a word to me.   
  
   I sighed and started walking towards the main doors of the building.  
  
   I knocked on the large wooden door, not really hoping that at least someone will be awake this early in the morning. In a second I heard quiet, shuffling steps. The door was opened by an old woman. She looked deadly tired, there were huge bags under her eyes, like she hadn't slept in the last few weeks.   
  
“Hello, mA'am. My name is Harry and I-"   
  
“I know, I know, I'm not that old to forget the name of my lodger.” She spoke irritably, looking up at me. "Come on in." Stepping back, she gave me some space to walk in.   
  
   Inside the building wasn't much different from its appearance. Same grey and dull. High peeling walls and dirty tiled floors reminded me of the asylums in horror movies, that I so feared to watch when I was a kid.  
  
"Your apartment is on the top floor. Don't make any mess and don't drag anybody in here, about everything else I don't care." She muttered, vanishing into the depths of her apartment, which was the only one on the ground floor.  
  
  
    Walking up the stairs, I almost got knocked out by some guy that was running down.  
  
“Hey! Watch where you're going!” I yelled to him.  
  
   He stopped a few steps below me. His brown eyes scanned me up and down, then he said sullen, "Sorry." and fled.   
  
  I frowned at him, keep dragging my suitcase.   
  
“God, why is this so heavy?” I exhaled, finally reaching my floor.  
  
Each time I was stepping on the tile, my low heels were making loud thuds, echoing throughout the whole building. Unintentionally, shivers started running down my spine, forcing me to feel a slight shade of fear and anxiety.  
  
I quickly went over to the door, hastily thrusting the key into the keyhole.  
  
   The door lock didn't budge after a few times of me trying to open it.  
  
“Oh, fuck you!” I kicked the door with my foot, slowly sliding down on the floor. It's so dirty in here, but I'm too tired to care.  
  
  I closed my eyes for a second, breathing deeply, before I heard someone's voice.  
  
“Need a hand?”Voice asked.   
  
  I slowly opened my eyes, looking who it was. It was the same guy from the stairs before. He stood a few inches away from me, studying my face from above. He was tall, toned, his skin is pale. He had a dark hair, which was dripping wet, sticking to his forehead. I guess he was outside. His clothes wasn't something special, just a black jacket, blue jeans and some pair of worn-out, dark brown boots.  
  
   I exhaustedly looked at him for a second, before dropping my gaze again.  
  
“I just.... I can't open the door.” I say, shrugging, feeling stupid for not being able to do such an easy thing.  
  
“Not a problem, get up.” He said, offering me a hand.  
  
    I refused to take it, slowly getting up from the floor. He chuckled slightly, watching me.   
  
“Give me your keys.” He reached his hand out. I had my doubts. This guy doesn't give me a feeling of safety and trust... But I still hand him the keys.  
  
He deftly inserted them into the lock, so neatly that it seemed to me that he's done it lots of times before. Turned, kneed.  
  
“Done.” He smiled, pushing the door open.   
  
“Thank you, em....”  
  
“Zayn.” He offered me a hand to shake and this time I took it. His palm was surprisingly dry and warm.  
  
“Harry.” I said, smiling at him tiredly. Long road impacted on me much.  
  
“Call me if you need to open your door again. I live right here.” He pointed to the grey, scratched door next to mine.  
  
“Em... Yeah. Okay.” I nodded.  
  
  
*  
  
  
Once I was inside, I began to examine my new domain. The apartment didn't look as bad as I imagined it on the way here. All wallpapers and flooring were intact and in pretty good condition. Judging by the design, their dark brown color and pattern on them, it was clear that they aren't brand new.  
  
A small hallway leads to the living room, in the middle of which was a dark green, wide sofa. Before it stood a small coffee table, made out of a dark wood, varnished. There's even a TV, although in appearance it looks older than me and I pretty much doubt that it works.  
  
From the living room, the three doors lead to the bedroom, bathroom, and the kitchen.  
  
Shuffling with my white socks on the bare linoleum, I head to the bedroom.  
  
It's a pretty bright room with a large window, occupying almost the entire wall. In the corner, along the left side from the entrance to the room, is a large wooden wardrobe. Against the opposite wall, leaning a headboard of a semi-double size bed.  
  
I look at the bare mattress with sadness, placing my suitcase on the floor.  
  
"There's got to be beddings..." I go to the closet, slowly opening its massive, creaky doors.  
  
From the insides, a wave of dust crashes on me, stinging my eyes a little. I cough.  
  
Lived up to my expectations, on the lower shelf I see a folded blanket, and a thin pillow on top of it.  
  
I took it in hand reluctantly. Not even sniffing, you can feel the smell of damp and dust which they exuded.  
  
"Yeah... Looks like I'll have to go get new pillows and blanket."  
  
I walk up to the window, opening it widely, letting the fresh air inside. My bedroom window overlookes at the narrow alley, where the houses were connected by the clotheslines, and where stood the trash cans. The view doesn't bother me much, as long as they don't stink.  
  
If you don't look down, and right in front of you, with the height of the fifth floor you could see the London. More precisely, the roofs of its houses.  
  
Looking at the asphalt, I noticed that the rain has stopped.  
  
Spreading pillows on the windowsill, so that they can be aired a little bit, I headed to the bathroom.  
  
Barely finding the switch, I managed to turn on the light. The first thing I saw were walls, covered in a layer of green paint, peeling in some places. The bathroom didn't look too welcoming, but at least it was clean. Even the tub and the toilet seem to be replaced with the new ones, glittered in the dim light of the bulb, lonely hanging from the grey ceiling.  
  
I walked over to the sink, feeling the cold tiled floor through the fabric of my socks. Turning the tap, it started pouring water. First it had a yellow tint of rusty pipes, but quickly cleared. Leaning over, I splashed ice-cold water on my face.  
  
After some thought, I decided to take a bath. Maybe it would help me relax and calm down a little before I go out to buy pillows.  
  
Opening the hot water, I poured a little amount of foam with the scent of chocolate under the jet stream. The whole room filled with a pleasant, sweet aroma, vapor emanating from the water, began to warm me.  
  
The rumbling in my stomach brought me back to earth. Out of habit I went to the kitchen. Of course, the refrigerator was empty. No one expected me here, and a feast for my arrival is not prepared. All I found was ice cubes, frozen to the door of the freezer. In my bag was nothing. I've already ate everything.  
  
"Gotta go buy food later." I sighed, sitting down on a kitchen chair. The kitchen was quite cozy and bright, furniture set even reminded me of home, with its friendly, dim blue colors. I especially liked the location of the table. It was standing by the window, near the door to a small balcony.  
  
I put my hands on the table in front of me, playing with the numerous rings on the long fingers.  
  
Was weird. Strange and lonely, but somehow extently calm. Now I'm alone, my family is far away from me. I knew that someday the time will come, when I, as a nestling will have to fly out of the nest and embark upon my own life. But I didn't think it would be so soon. Childhood passed by quickly, leaving a bright spot in my heart, warming my soul every time I thought about it.  
  
With a smile I remember the years of youth, and all the stupid things I managed to do. At 16, I felt so grown up, but really, I was just a child. I am now still a child, because 19 years isn't that much.  
  
Remembering about the bath, I got up and went to check.  
  
  
  
*  
  
  
  
****_Zayn's POV_  
  
  
  Entering my apartment, I  shut the door behind me. Walking inside, I threw off of the feet my muddy shoes, remaining barefoot. _It's always cold in here_ , I thought, dragging off from my shoulders a black jacket made of synthetic leather.  
  
In particular, due to the fact that I never closed the balcony door. Even in winter, it sometimes remains open. I love the feeling of coldness since I moved to my own apartment. I had to live with my mother before, in a stuffy, cramped cabin designed for one person. And there were five of us, along with my sisters. Only one of them, Doniya, are now able to move out from our mother, she just turned twenty years old.  
  
I haven't seen them for two years, from the moment I moved out. Mom doesn't want me to meet with them. And while she no longer controls Daniya, Waliyha and Safaa are still minors and have to obey her. Of course, she can't control everything forever so, sometimes, we talk on the phone.  
  
Me and my mom, Trisha, have a pretty strained relationships of son and mother since they divorced with my dad when I was fifteen. I don't know the exact reason for their divorce, but they both cheated on each other regularly, so it's not surprising.  
  
I was sorry to lose my father, he was a good parent, much better than my mother, even though he drinks sometimes. But they just weren't meant to be together. But my sisters were worried much more because of this. It strongly affected them.  
  
I remember how Waliyha cried when father left us one morning. Doniya, only a year younger than me, she understood and saw everything herself. And Safaa was too young to understand. Mom told her that dad went on a business trip, or was just avoiding the question.  
  
But these memories don't cause me sadness. Not anymore, it's been a long time, and now I have a completely different life on my own.  
  
  
Staying in only baggy t-shirt with long sleeves and jeans, I went into the kitchen.  
  
On the table stood a mug, half-full with coffee since the very early morning. I got out of the pack and lit a cigarette, standing near the open window in the kitchen. People almost never walk under my windows. But it's certainly better than constantly hearing their voices and sounds of driving cars.  
  
Smoked a cigarette, I went into the bedroom. In comparison with the rest of the apartment, this room was cluttered the most. On my working desk were laying a stack of papers with notes, magazines, books, pictures, variety of notebooks, which I bought one after the other, without having to fill a previous with writings.  
  
I never make my bed either. Among the pile of blankets, was my laptop. The screen is long gone, but the lights were flashing, so it still was working.  
  
In a bunch of junk on the table, I found my old player and attached to it headphones. This finding certainly pleases me, I usually can't find anything in this chaos.  
  
Inserting headphones in my ears, I carefully lay down on the bed, so I won't accidentally fall on the laptop, or anything else that could be lying under the blankets.  
  
My favorite song, called "Gravity" started playing.  
  
It lasted a few seconds, the song didn't even reach the chorus.  
  
Though I put the volume on maximum, I still heard the front door boomed loudly. I sighed, knowing exactly who it was.   
       
   I pulled out the headphones, looking at the visitor of my apartment, who now stood in the doorway of the bedroom.  
  
"What do you want?" I asked, tired. I was really going to get some rest, just a little, but nope, not that easy, Zayn.  
  
"'Hi' would be nice." He answered, smirking at me darkly.   
  
"Let's just get this over with, okay Louis? I have things to do." I stood up, trying to pass by him, but he grabbed my wrist.   
  
"Like what? Writing your shitty songs?" He chuckled. I hate when he does that.  
  
"None of your business, just let me go." I sighed. I felt exhausted after a night shift at the bar. I worked there as a waiter, if it could be called so. Hand rounded alcohol all night, while a bunch of drunken men molested prostitutes right in front of me.  
  
Now I just wanted to get rid of him, but Louis never gives up so easy.  
  
   I pulled my hand, but he immediately grabbed my second wrist, pressing me to the wall. His face close to mine, he whispered,   
"don't do that, I'm your brother. You don't have to treat me like that."   
  
"You're not my brother and you never will be. We met only because my mom decided to marry your piece of shit father." I say, remaining deadly calm. He won't piss me off tonight. No fucking way.  
  
"And what about us...?" He asked, drawing a line on my cheek with the tip of his cold nose, emphasizing on the word 'us'.  
  
"There's no 'us'. Fuck off." I hissed.   
  
"Nuh-ah. I don't thinks so." His grip on me tightens, as he leans in.   
  
  I jerkily turn my head to the side as much as possible, so he can't connect our lips.   
  
"Louis, that's enough! Get off!" I say, louder now, pushing him away with my whole body and he finally lets me go.   
  
"You're so lame, Zayn." He says, leaning on the wall next to me, but I quickly move away as far as possible.   
  
"What do you want?" I ask the same question from a few minutes ago. "The fridge is empty, no more beer." I inform him, crossing my arms on my chest.  
  
"Nah, just wanted to see you." He smiles as I show him my middle finger.  
  
"Well, I didn't. So would you please get the fuck out?" I say in a fake nice tone.   
  
"Okay, Zayn. But don't forget that I live here too." He smirks and leaves the bedroom and then the apartment, as usual, slamming the door.  
  
   I sigh, running fingers through my hair. Like this day could be any worse.  
  
*  
  


 


	2. Chapter 2

  
Chapter 2.  
  
  
  
 ** _Harry's POV_**  
  
   Lying in a hot water, under the mountains of foam, I enjoyed the relaxing music playing in my headphones.  
  
  
However, to fully relax and submerge into the Nirvana was kinda difficult. I had a feeling of anxiety, some kind of insecurity, as if someone could come to me while I wasn't listening or looking. It was one of the childish fears, when the parents went somewhere and I stayed home alone, it was always pretty creepy. Only then I was scared of monsters under the bed, and now I'm afraid of very real things. People are different, some of them are sick, especially in a district like mine.   
  
Through the music in my headphones I heard a loud blow. So strong that my thin walls shook, threatening to collapse altogether. I pulled the earplugs out, putting my smartphone on the mat next to the bathtub.  
  
I listened, but heard nothing else. Was it Zayn? That would be weird. Maybe he has some kinds of mental issues? Although, I have no reason to think that, he just helped me with the door.  
  
Jesus, Harry, you can't count someone as a psycho just because of one door bang.  
  
  
  
The water seemed suddenly cold, and I decided to get out.  
  
Stepping on the soft rug I realized that I forgot to bring a towel. I irritably sighed, opening the bathroom door, letting the cold air rush inside.   
  
   I tip-toed out of the warm room, covering my body with my arms. If I went to the skating rink without skates, it probably would be warmer than that.   
  
  
"You can catch a cold if you keep walk around like this." I yelped from the sudden of hearing someone's voice. I turned around, grabbing a plaid from the sofa and hiding my body in it.  
  
  
"What the fuck, Zayn? What are you doing here?" I asked, looking at him with my eyes wide open. He stood in the doorway of my small living room, slight smile appeared on his lips. What the hell is he smiling about?  
  
  
"You forgot your keys." He showed me the keys in his hand.   
  
  
"You just forgot to give them back to me." I said stubbornly and took a step forward to grab my keys. "What are you smiling about?" I raised an eyebrow at him. 

  
"Nothing." He chuckled, reaching his hand somewhere above me, wiping away the foam from my hair. 

  
"Argh... Thank you... For the keys." I said, taking a step back, feeling somehow unsafe standing too close. I can't say that he makes me feel dislike. Maybe I was trying to convince myself of so, but it's not true. 

  
"You're welcome." He smiled and left, quietly closing the door behind him.

  
   I stood there for some time, looking at the keys in my hand. From the tips of my long hair was dripping water. Drops were making banging sounds, landing on the floor.

 

  
*

 

  
_THE NEXT DAY_  
  
 ** _Harry's POV_**  
  
   I never had such a strong desire to get out of the bed in the morning. I woke up a hour before the alarm. Not counting the fact that I haven't fell completely asleep during the night. My pillow and sheets seemed so uncomfortable and hard, and so damn cold, even though they were new.

  
   Barely getting out of bed, I slowly trudged to the kitchen.   
  
Unpleasant chill ran up my bare skin. I looked at the kitchen window and realized that I left it open all night.  
  
In the sink I found a dirty dish left after yesterday's dinner. _Of course,_ _you don't_ _wash the dishes, if_ _your_ _mother doesn't tell you about it._ I thought, feeling the irony. Of course I'll wash the dishes.  I just could've do that yesterday, so not to bother with it now, but I'm not walking easy paths.  
  
Ignoring the dirty dish again, I pulled out from the hinged cabinet a white mug, pouring into it two spoonfuls of instant coffee.   
  
Waiting till the kettle boils, I went to the window.

  
  
Outside it was overcast, as always. It seemed that this town was immersed in such an atmosphere of grayness and dampness all the time. As if London was under a big cloud, and once you get beyond it, only then will be able to see the sun.  
  
It's autumn, the beginning of September. Summer hasn't yet said goodbye to the nature, and many of the trees were still green. It's hard to believe that soon all of this will disappear, trees will be bare and unwelcoming. There won't be anything but gloom and cold for a long, long time.  
  
I sighed heavily, hearing the click of the boiling kettle.   
  
Making myself a coffee, strong and black, without a single drop of milk or a spoon of sugar, I sat down at a table that seemed too huge just for me.

 

  
  
Maybe I'll meet someone at University? My first and last relationship was at 16 years. With a guy who was three years older than me. It wasn't serious, we just sort of played with each other. I was a kid, for me it was so new, and he just found in me some kind of interest to him. He didn't love me. At such an early age you don't talk about love, because it's unlikely going to be something serious. I was a susceptible teenager, I still am. But I liked him... a lot. So when he cheated on me, it was my first major disappointment in life.  
  
I just caught him on it, found at the crime scene.   
  
That morning I came to his house, the front door was open. I walked in and found him with a girl.   
  
It was a dark band for me. I was sad, but that's when I first picked up a camera and started taking pictures. It was an old Polaroid of my sister. I liked it very much because I was able to print the photos I made.  
  
I photographed everything that caught my eye and seemed interesting. Trees, nature, animals and birds, people. The objects of my shots were often my mom or sister. I loved to capturing them during their ordinary affairs. Then they seemed to be alive even on the photo. Their poses looked natural, not staged.   
  
My sudden love for photography was growing smoothly with me. So I decided to enroll in the University of the Arts, photography Department.  
  
It seemed right for me, and it was to matching my liking.

  
  
  
    Thinking about that, my mood lightened up a bit. I took a sip of hot coffee, looking at my own balcony through the window. It just seemed so rusty and rotten that I was hesitant to step on it, fearing that the poor thing might just crash under my weight.  
  
   Zayn also had one. I was surprised to see him watering the flowers that were growing there in large amounts.  
  
   The plants were in an excellent condition. They bloomed and smelled. His small balcony was a bright stain amidst all of the dullness, that is just pleasing to the eye.   
  
Using his long, slender fingers, he carefully took and examined every leaf and Bud. He was so wrapped up in this thing, as if it wasn't flowers, but children.   
  
"I could take a picture of it..." A thought flashed in my head, instantly falling from my lips.   
  
As Zayn was shirtless, I could see his chest, covered with tattoos of different shapes. He was quite muscular, on the abdomen was visible a pack of abs, rounded muscles were framing his arms perfectly. They weren't too big, just the way they should be, looking natural. Beautiful.   
  
I liked my lips, taking another sip from my coffee.

 

  
*

 

  
  
  The weather was warm and pleasant, and yesterday's rain gave the trees some  freshness, their trunks as if straightened up, gaining a new power.   
  
I walked down the street, deftly avoiding puddles so as not to wet my shoes.  
  
I decided to go to school on foot, it wasn't far. Different thoughts mixed up in my head and heart fluttered in anticipation. It was quite an emotional event, as the first day in school. It's been so long, but I feel like a first grader once again.  
  
View of the College from the outside made me feel different feelings, joy and excitement at the same time. A long and tall gray building with windows on the full length of the first floor, with a sign at the entrance, where black on white was written "Camberwell College of Arts».  
  
Before the entrance were lots of bikes and several scooters, and the new continued to arrive, bringing new students.   
  
  
  
Not without hesitation, I walked through the glass doors.  
  
Inside, the building welcomed me with bright colors. Students' works were hanging everywhere, insanely beautiful drawings and photographs. The walls were painted in soft beige tones and the floors were coated with white parquet. All together it looked very nice on the background of heaps of students, each of whom was the individual bright spot. Part of the overall image of this place is literally saturated with creative spirit.  
  
  
   Remembering that I need to go to the lecture, I started to look for my schedule in my bag.  
  
I took a whole bunch of things that are unlikely going to be useful to me tonight: three notebooks, two pencil cases with pens and markers, even some of my Polaroid photos. Among all of this stuff was my schedule. _I definitely should_ _'_ _ve read this yesterday_ , I thought, pulling a crumpled piece of paper from the bottom of my bag.

  
"Looking for something?" A voice somewhere from behind me asked, and someone's hand suddenly was on my shoulder. I turned around.  
  
Nose to nose I was faced with the man I expected to see the least. In front of me was Louis, my first and only boyfriend. He had changed, matured. On his face was noticeable stubble, but it only gave him charm. In the same way as surprise that froze on his face. Looks like he didn't expect to see me either.   
  
His hand slipped from my shoulder, he was staring at me with his blue eyes.

  
"Harry?” He asks quietly. For some reason I smiled, nodding.  


  
“Your hair is... Longer.”   
  
  
I chuckle softly, “Yes, I'm growing it.” I say simply.   


  
“How do you-” Louis starts, but a loud bell interrupts him, informing students that it is time to go to lectures.   


  
"Sorry, gotta run." I quickly smile at him, before walking away.  


  
"Wait, let's talk. Later." He grabbed my wrist, forcing me to stop.  
  
  
I look at him impatiently, "Maybe next time." I tell him before disappearing in the crowd of students.  
  
  
  
  
 *  
      
  
  
My thoughts quickly returned to school as soon as I walked into the class. Across the room was double spaced tables in two rows. On the entire length of the wall were huge windows that overlook to the street. From the ceiling were hanging peculiar figures similar to multi-colored origami, and at the end of class were large potted plants.   
  
Many students have already took their places, but the Professor still wasn't there, so I hurried.  
  
Taking the first empty seat that caught my eye, I started taking out the necessary writing articles.

  
“Hi, you're new?” A male voice with an American accent asked me. I turned around to see a blond-haired, brown-eyed guy. He warmly smiled at me, on his teeth could be seen braces. He also had a large, round glasses similar to those worn by the nerds from the movies. His blond curly hair, with the color of dry leaves of maize , was combed straight back, in a small tuft.  


  
I smiled back, ""Yes. That obvious?" I ask, as he chuckles, showing off his braces, “Kinda. You look a little lost, like all the other newcomers." He states. “My name is Galen, I can be your guide.” He offers me his hand and I gladly shake it.   


  
"Harry. And yeah, that would be totally nice." I smile.  


  
"You got it. So, what subject are you studying, Harry?" He asks, putting his cheek on the inner side of the palm.   


  
“Photography. And you?”   


  
"The sculpture." He proudly smiles. "My love for sculpting began in early childhood, when I concocted my mother out of clay." He says, making me laugh lightly.   


  
“I can tell you more about it later, “ He whispers, standing up as the Professor enters the class.  


 

  
*  


 

  
The lecture lasted about an hour, but I didn't have time to get bored. Galen all the time was telling me something, or showing his sketches from a notebook. He was very sociable,which is pretty good to me.  
  
I wasn't too talkative, so someone had to shake me a little.  
  
When the bell finally rang, everyone got up and began hurriedly collecting their things, including Galen.  


  
"You're coming to the party tonight? On the occasion of the new academic year, everyone will be there." He says to me, fastening his pencil case.  


  
I bit my lip, thinking. I wasn't a fan of parties, but deciding that nothing bad perhaps isn't going to happen, I agreed.  


  
"Yes, probably. Where is it?"  


  
"Campus, not far from here. I'll show you."  


 

  
*  


 

  
"So you're not local?" Galen asked me as soon as we went outside. To my surprise, the fog lifted, weak rays of the sun shone through the clouds. I raised my face to the sky, feeling the warm air kisses my cheeks.   


  
"Yeah, I came here to study." I sigh softly.  


  
"Me, too. I'm from Portland. My family moved here five years ago." He kicked a small pebble and it went flying far ahead.  


  
"Why?"   


  
"Because of father's work. Well, it's a long story." He brushed it off.  


  
For a while it was silent. We just walked, in an unknown direction to me. Cars were passing by, monday is always a busy day.  


 

  
“Do you have any friends here?”He asked when we crossed the road.  
  
I shook my head, “No, not really.”   


  
“Well, I can be your friend. Also, know a girl, she wants to be a photographer too. You could've been friends as well." He playfully poked my arm with his elbow.  


  
I smiled weakly, "Yeah, thanks..."  


  
  
“No problem. Hey, we're almost there." He nodded in the direction of a five-story building of brown brick. "This is campus. There, in the lobby, will be a party. Come tonight at 7pm and...Meet me there?"   


  
“Yeah, see ya.” I waved to him as we went separate ways.  


 

  
*

 

  
  
Forty minutes later I was home.  
  
On the move, I pulled off my grey sweater, throwing it on the couch and went to take shower.  
  
A cool stream of water ran down my body, causing the first chill.   
  
Pouring in the palm a little bit of shampoo, I applied it on my hair, massaging.   
  
Gradually the water became hot, filling the entire room with steam.   


  
*  


_  
_ _..._ _I'm somewhere, you're somewhere_ _  
_ _I'm nowhere, you're nowhere_ _  
_ _You're somewhere, you're somewhere_ _  
_ _I could go there but I don't_ _..._   
  
The music from my laptop was playing quietly while I was decorating my room.  
  
After an hour I managed to do quite a lot of work: wipe the dust off of the furniture and vacuum the carpet.   
  
I brought many things from home to look at them here, and reminisce about my hometown.   
  
Above the headboard I stuck my Polaroid photos. There were so many that they covered almost the whole wall.   
  
On the top of the window I hung the garland, which glowed in the dark with colorful lights.  
  
On the windowsill settled my numerous books, as I haven't got a bookshelf yet.  


 

  
"And the last one..." I stood up on the tip-toes, trying to reach the top of the wall and to keep the balance, that was quite difficult, my feet kept sinking into the mattress of the bed.  
  
When the last photo was on its place, I surveyed the entire room with satisfaction.    


 

  
Suddenly the music stopped and another melody began playing, which meant that I got a call on Skype.   
  
I jumped out of bed on the floor, running over to the laptop.  


  
“Hi, mom.” I said, answering the call. Mom's happy face appeared on the screen, she waved to me.  


  
“Hi, Harry. Are you busy?”   


  
“No, I'm not, mom. Sorry for not calling you yesterday, had a lot of things to do.”   


  
“Oh, don't worry about it. Better tell me, how are you there? Do you like it? The apartment is good?" She asked excitedly.  
  
I sat on the bed with the laptop on my knees, anticipating that the conversation will be long.  


  
“It's great in here.” I removed still slightly wet strand of hair away from my face. "The apartment is nice. Just gotta clean up a little more." I looked around.  


  
Mom chuckled, “I hope you make the bed?" She asked with playful reproach, looking at a pile of blankets behind me.  


  
I quickly removed them behind my back, "of course, mom."  


  
We both laughed.  


  
"You already been on your lectures?"   


  
"Yes. It's awesome, that University is just huge, it's very beautiful." I spoke with enthusiasm. Mom smiled contentedly.  


  
"Met someone?"   


  
I bit my lip, for the first time in the day thinking about Louis. "Yeah, his name is Galen."  


  
"I hope he's a good guy?"  


  
I rolled my eyes, “Yeah, he showed me around a little bit.”  


  
“Good,” Mom nodded, “How about your neighbors? I hope they aren't too loud?”  


  
I looked at the wall that separated me and Zayn, “No, he's pretty quiet.”  


  
It was the truth. Since yesterday I haven't heard a sound from him. I'm even a little worried.  


  
“Is that a guy? How old is he? What's his name?”   


  
“Zayn, and I don't know. We haven't talked much.”I said, tugging at my long sleeves.  


  
"Well, you'll still have time, I'm sure. Honey, I'm sorry, but I gotta go, my casserole is almost ready. I wish you a good day, and promise to call me tomorrow, okay?"  


  
I nodded, smiling softly at my mom, “Yeah, I promise.”  


  
She waved me goodbye before ending the call.  


 

  
I sighed, turning off the laptop. I carefully put it aside, heading to the closet. It was rather difficult to find anything, since half of my stuff was still packed and half scattered somewhere across the room.  
  
A little digging and searching, I finally found my favorite shirt in the green-grey gingham and blue jeans that are slightly loose on me. On my feet I decided to wear brown shoes with laces.  
  
Standing in front of the mirror in the bathroom, I've plaited half of the hair into a bun, leaving the rest loose.  
  
Wearing my bag over my shoulder, I left the apartment, closing the door behind me.  
  
Outside was so warm, as if summer had returned for a while. It was already 6:30 pm, the sky slowly began to acquire pink and orange hues, and the sun was going to meet the horizon very soon.  
  
I quickly arrived at the campus. Inside gathered a huge number of people, they were drinking, dancing and talking to loud music. Through the large windows you could see a perfect view of the sunset, which painted the whole room in orange.  
  
Squeezing through the students I walked over the bar, behind which I saw Galen. I was pleasantly surprised of this meeting.  


  
"Galen?" I asked to be sure.  


  
He nodded, smiling widely, "Yep. I told you we'd meet. So, what do you think of this place?"  
  
I looked around. In the center of the hall stood a few sofas, and before them a plasma TV. From here doors led into the cafeteria, and library. And right near the bar were stairs to the upper floors. Because of the large number of people, almost nothing else was visible.  


  
"It's nice." I said, trying to speak louder than music was playing. Galen nodded, pleaded, pouring into the glass some green soda and handing it to me.  


  
"There's no alcohol, but if someone brings their own, I pour." He said, leaning close to my ear. I smiled at him, taking a quick sip of my fizz green drink.  


  
"Look, I need to step away for a while. Couldn't you handle a bar? I'll be back super fast."   


  
"Yes, of course." Galen withdrew and I took his place, looking around.  _Well, at least there is no alcohol, so there will be fewer drunken idiots,_ I thought.  
  
I heard my phone calling in the bag. Running my hand inside, I tried to grope the vibrating apparatus. A second later, the phone stopped ringing and when I looked up, in front of me, across the counter, was Louis.   
  
I involuntarily flinched in surprise, "What are you doing here? You scared me."  


  
"I didn't know that you're embedded in bartenders." He smirked.  


  
I rolled my eyes, “I didn't. Friend asked me to replace him until he returns."   


  
He n odded, looking at me with a strange, soft smile, by which was impossible to read what he had on mind. His long fingers pounded on the bar surface, as if he was waiting for something.  


  
"Why did you come here? Are you also a student?" I could hardly believe it. Louis was never in love with art in any of its manifestations, there is nothing for him to do in this College.   


  
He was slow to answer. And when he finally spoke, it wasn't the answer I was expecting.   


  
"How about a dance?" He offered, holding out his hand.   


  
"How about no?" I folded my arms on my chest. From the speakers poured a gentle, quiet melody that was familiar to me. Louis smiled softly.   


  
"Just a dance. And I'll leave you alone. Deal?"   


 

  
I hesitantly took his hand, letting him lead me out from behind the bar.  


  
We walked to the center of the dance floor, merging with a bunch of other people. His free hand slid down my back, stopping at the waist. I rested mine on his shoulder. We started moving to the beat of a slow music.  


 

  
"Didn't know you could waltz." I admitted, looking him in the eyes. He grinned.  


  
"I'll show you all I can do, if you give me a chance." He whispered in my ear so no one but me could hear. My cheeks burned with a bright flame, and my heart started pounding in the chest.  


  
"Louis, we broke up. And you perfectly know why." I reminded him. It hurts to think about it. I would like to erase that day from my memory.   


  
His face changed to more serious, even threatening, he squeezed me tighter in his hands.  
  
"It was a mistake. I was a fool, never thought about what I was doing.” He shyly dropped his eyes before looking at me again. "I would never do it again. I swear to you. Just give me a chance. Give me a chance to prove it to you." He said in hearts, causing goose bumps to run down my back.  


  
I swallowed the lump in my throat, pursing my lips. Right now, I'm weak. I can't think straight, he clouded my mind with all these beautiful words. If I agree now, I might regret it later.  


  
I gently shake my head, my body pressed to him, feeling the familiar warmth that seemed long forgotten.  


  
"I'll try."  


 

  
*   


 


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter 3.  


 

  
*

 

  
  
_**Zayn's POV  
  
** _ **“** **I've been doing it wrong for too long** **  
** **I said I've been at it wrong for too long** **  
** **I've been doing it wrong for too long** **…”  
**

 

**  
** I silently sang , lightly tracing my pencil across the paper.  


 

  
The apartment is quiet, can not hear no sound, even on the outside, like I'm the last person on earth.  


  
There came a breeze. I raised my head, looking at night London through the doorway of my balcony. I wonder how much time is it? I forgot my phone in the bedroom. Must have been around midnight. Cars rarely drive down the roads, in many houses people already turned their lights off.  


  
I draw another line, BAM, outside the window something quietly rustled. It started to rain. Its heavy drops were falling and hitting the foliage and the surfaces of the roofs. More recently, the sun was shining. I managed to catch this moment: I was at home, I'm off today.  


  
I used to go up on the roof to retire and watch the sunrise or sunset. It didn't matter, because I was able to witness both, as I usually slept during the day.   


  
Now, perhaps, I'm too old for this.  


  
Wind fanned my pages, causing the hand to tremble and lubricate the line. I sigh wearily, putting the album aside and slowly rising on my feet.  


  
Louis still isn't home. It often happens that he doesn't come home at night. I don't know where he sleeps, perhaps, in the Dorm, at the friend of his. I once called him, his name is Frank, but Louis wasn't there.   


  
I'm not used to sleep at night. My clock has gone strayed long time ago, from the constant night shifts at the bar. My boss says that I need more rest, but really, he doesn't care. For him, the most important thing is that I don't pour the drinks out on visitors.  


  
I could find a better job if I made the effort. But without a degree it is quite difficult.   


  
Why am I not educated? Well, here I really have no excuse. It just happened, although I haven't tried to change anything.   


  
Boil kettled, I made myself somw tea to calm down a little, and maybe sleep. We rarely have food in the house, but we always have tea, I bring it from work.  


  
Liquid burns my lips, but I swallow hard, feeling the hot water flowing down my throat.  


  
_It's the crappiest tea in the world,_ I thought, keeping drinking.  


  
My insides became warm very quickly, and on my forehead appeared a little amount of sweat. I put the mug in the sink, slowly moving towards the bedroom.  


  
After entering the dark room, I blindly walked over to the window, taking off my shirt. Peering out, I found myself in the cold darkness of the night. Harry's windows were as dark as the rest of the house. Only on the first floor, reflected on wet asphalt, from the window was oozing dim, flashing light.  _Miss Brackins is probably watching TV_ , I thought, closing the window, but not completely, leaving only a small crack for the air.  


  
Stripped to my sweatpants, I climbed under the blanket, putting one of the pillows under my head.   


  
My ceiling hasn't changed. It hasn't varied from day to day. Whenever I went to bed, it always remained the same.  


  
I  closed my eyes, trying to fall asleep. A draught swinged the bedroom door from side to side, forcing it to occasionally creak.  


  
Soon I felt how I'm slowly losing power and hearing, drowning into a slumber.  


 

  
*  


 

  
The night ended very quickly for me. Somewhere at six in the morning, when the day just began to break, the front door opened.  
  
I sat up in bed, rubbing my eyes with one hand and throwing off the covers with the other.  
  
I rose to my feet, feeling slightly dizzy, and putting on the first shirt that I saw, left the room.  
  
I found him in the kitchen searching for something in the fridge.  


  
"Why no food?" He asked, noticing me. His voice sounded somehow tired and a little lost.   


  
"Well, you didn't buy anything. And I'm not going to provide you with food." I folded my arms on my chest, leaning on the wall in front of the entrance to the kitchen. "You have a job." I reminded him. As far as I knew, and how he even included me in his life, he got a job as a courier.  


  
"I HAD a job." He slammed the fridge door. "I was fired."   


  
"Great." I flinged my hands, going towards the bathroom. "I hope you realize that you have to solve the problem yourself?"  


  
I hear him following me, “Yes, I know. Just don't be mad at me all day!" He suddenly flares up.  


  
I stop, turning to face him. "Am I mad at you? I don't care, do what you want. Like you ever care if I'm angry or not." I say quietly and calmly, before retiring to the bathroom and shutting the door behind me.  


 

  
*  


 

  
I stayed in the shower for as long as I could, just sitting under hot running water. I didn't want to talk to him, to listen to his claim. He is always dissatisfied with something, it's unbearable.  


  
I turned off the water, listening to the sounds outside the door. The steps couldn't be heard, but something was telling me that Louis didn't leave. I sighed, climbing out of the bathtub and stepping on the cold tile. After drying my body and wet hair with a towel, I dressed and went out into the living room.   


  
Louis was lying on the sofa watching something on his phone. I walked silently past him, into the bedroom, closing the door behind me. This door doesn't have a latch, although, perhaps, it would be worthwhile to set it up, so I could prevent his arrival.  


  
That's what happened: after about thirty minutes, when I was lying in bed, reading a book, the bedroom door creaked opened. I stubbornly ignored his presence, not looking up.  


  
Taking quiet and soft steps of bare feet, he walked over to the bed and gently lay down next to me. I felt his eyes on my face, but didn't react. Beside him I always felt weaker, like after sleeping pills.  


  
"I care if you're mad." He whispered. I sighed, feeling helpless in front of him and hating myself for it. Why can't I just tell him to back off? But I knew the answer. Because even if I do, he won't go away.  


  
Not knowing what to say, I just remained silent. He continued to burn a hole in me with his gaze.  


  
“Where were you the whole night?” I ask for some reason, although I do realize that the answer is not going to be anything specific. He never tells me about it.  


  
"I was at the party." His answer surprised me so much that I even turned my head to look at him.  


  
"And what were you doing there?"   


  
"Met a friend." He replied indifferently, shrugging his shoulders.  


  
"Frank? What kind of friend?" Myself not knowing why, I kept asking him, as if I even cared. Yes, it mattered to me to some extent, but not enough to become a curious mother of his.  


  
“Just a friend, you don't know him.” He answered without a single note of irritation in his voice, which was a rarity. In temper he was superior to any teenager during puberty.  


  
I raised an eyebrow, trying to find the answer in his eyes, and then sighed, taking a pack of cigarettes from the bedside table.   


  
Getting one for myself, I handed the other to Louis. He immediately took it in, sitting down in a more comfortable position. Taking out from his pocket his own lighter, he lit the tip of the cigarette, putting it into his mouth.   


  
I continuously watched him, emitting a ring of smoke into the air. We lived together, but he was so incomprehensible to me.  _He got me hooked on cigarettes_ , in my head flashed the thought that made me smile. How bad it may seem, it was one of the few bright memories that we've shared.   


  
His blue eyes were staring somewhere towards the window, but when he looked at me and our looks met, I got a chill running up my skin.  


  
His long, dark eyelashes slowly rose and fell, sending me waves of sleepiness. I felt a sense of peace. Peace, when nothing ever bothers you. You just don't care.  


  
Louis gently took my hand in which I held a cigarette, and moved it away from my lips. Then he leaned in, very close to my face, exhaling a hot stream of smoke into my mouth.   


  
I involuntarily closed my eyes for a second, my tongue began to hurt, and his cold fingers on my face felt like ice.   


  
He moved lower to my neck, taking my flesh with his teeth. My breathing got a little carried away as soon as he painfully bit into my skin. So much, that part of my neck became numb, but I didn't move.   


  
He still held my wrist in his hand, firmly, so I couldn't get away. The hot tip of his cigarette touched my palm, but it wasn't an accident. I firmly gritted my teeth, but he continued the torture, burning my skin.   


  
"Louis...," I whispered, making an effort not to scream in pain. He stopped, releasing me. I abruptly pulled the troubled limb, grabbing the place of burn with the second hand.   


 

  
He just smiled at me, leaving a poisonous kiss on my lips. I watched him in horror, but such actions haven't surprised me. He did it before.   
  
Extinguishing the cigarette, he took the same position next to me, instantly falling asleep like a baby.   


  
Watching him, I couldn't close my eyes for a long time, the burn badly hurt and charred.  


 

  
*  


 

  
Through my sleep I heard some dull, annoying noise like the buzzing of a bee. Barely forcing to open my heavy eyelids, I saw the ringing phone on the table.  


  
With great effort I got up, grabbing the subject of my awakening and pressing it to my ear.  


  
"Yes?.." I mumbled.   


  
"Zayn? Is that you?" I recognized the familiar female voice that I haven't heard in several months, and was quite happy with it.  


  
"Yes, mother. What?" I coughed. My mouth still had a disgusting sludge of cigarette smoke.  


  
"Is Louis with you? Troy can't reach him." Troy. That was the name of Louis's father.  


  
I sighed, looking around the empty dark room, "No, he's not here."  


  
"Why isn't he with you?" She asked in genuine surprise.  


  
"Well, maybe because he's 22, and he doesn't informs me where he goes."   


  
She sighed heavily, my comments clearly were irritating her, "Don't be stubborn, Zayn. Find him. You know what he is.”  


  
"What? Hot-tempered? Never thinks about what he's doing? Shits on my opinion? Yeah , I have a pretty good idea. And it gives me no reason to go and look for him. I have better things to do." I jumped up, starting to pace around the room back and forth.   


  
All drowsiness vanished, now I felt only irritation. It seemed painfully unfair. Louis lived with me and played on my nerves, and I still had to think about his well-being and watch his every step. He always takes a pretty good care of himself, I'm just a junk person who pays for the apartment in which he occasionally appears.  


  
  
"Zayn." Mother calls me, as if asking to calm down. "Find him. His phone is off, Troy is worried.”  


  
"He never takes his phone with him." I muttered. They all just  make a mountain out of a molehill.   
  
“You heard me.”  


  
  
At this point our conversation ends. Just like that, without a hello and goodbye.  


  
I sighed, throwing the phone on the bed mattress.   


 

  
_Why is he always giving me trouble?_   


 

  
*  


 

  
It was the middle of the night when I left the house. Wrapping my jacket tighter around my body, I ran down the street to the bus stop. The farther I moved away from home, the lighter it got. The city seems to come alive, everywhere were shining colorful signs, and a warm yellow light oozed from almost every window by which I passed.  


  
There were thousands of places where Louis could be, but two of them I remember the most, he dragged me into one of them repeatedly.   


  
It was an old abandoned house on the outskirts of the city. There are often met various dubious types, like drug addicts and alcoholics. More often Louis comes there to meet with his friends.   


  
It was always smoky and dark, I terribly didn't like this place from top to toe, it had a feeling of insecurity, anything could happen there. And if you call for help, hardly anyone will hear you.  


  
I ran into the already moving bus, quickly flopping on the first free seat. In all transport I was almost alone, only at the very end of the bus was sitting a boy with the hood pulled down over his eyes. His head was hanging down and his chin was touching the chest. He seemed to be asleep.  


  
Leaning back in the narrow seat, I turned my gaze to the window. Through a huge layer of dust settled on it, all that was outside seemed to be hence some sort of grey and dirty.  


  
Preparing for the long road, I briefly closed my eyes to kill some time.  


 

  
*  


 

  
I reached the place after about an hour, by riding two different buses and then walking on potholes which turned into mountains of slimy mud after a rain.  


  
Approaching the dubious building, I felt some kind of anxiety. Heart quickened its pace, and my legs seemed to be like cotton. With all fibers in my body I prayed that he was there. Otherwise, his friends won't be happy to see me.   


  
From the holes in rotten walls that were once windows, on the ground reflected the dim light of candles, staining the grass in the color of the fire. From the chimney on the roof flew a plume of smoke, rising into the night sky and dissolving in it.  


  
Rather bravely, I walked up to the door, and without knocking, entered. On the floor I saw four people: two some guys who I haven't seen before, dressed in rags and headbands. Between them was sitting a girl, she was wearing ripped jeans and a huge, dark green sweater. She held in her hand the cord from a hookah, taking another puff. Louis were closing the circle of people, but he looked strange and unusual for himself. His back was leaning on the wall, he looked asleep, but his eyes were open, staring at the floor with emtiness and indifference. Unlike the others, he didn't raise his head when I walked in.  


  
"Zayn...." One of the guys drawled, blurring into a smile, trying to get up, but failed.   


  
He apparently was the leader, since hearing his words, the others also began to smile like hyenas.  


  
Ignoring them, I walked over to Louis, crouching in front of him on my haunches. On the way here, when I almost lost my shoes in the mud, I wanted to yell at him. But now, that desire is gone. Closer, he looked even more sick, all this wasn't giving him pleasure anymore.  


  
Removing the sweaty hair from his forehead, I beguiled to catch his eyes, but he was completely detached.  


  
"What's wrong with him?" I asked, all of them at once, not speaking to someone in person.  


  
The same guy said, "He had a little too much." Now the hose was in his hands, he brought it to his lips. "But you'd better take him outta here. By the morning homeless will come and they won't be happy seeing him here asleep."   


  
The others laughed out loud, the girl playfully shoved him in the shoulder, "Greg, we're ourselves like hobos!" She bursted into loud laughter. Greg hit himself in the knee, "Yeah, right."  


  
Realizing that I have no use with them, I picked Louis up by armpits, setting him on his feet. He stood, swaying like a zombie. Taking his wrist, I led him out of the smoke-filled room into the fresh air, he dutifully followed my lead.  


  
"What are you stoned on?" I looked him in the face.  


  
He shook his head and shrugged, as if saying, "don't know".

  
  
I sighed, berating myself for not taking anything with me, even a bottle of water. Well, I could guess. But who knew that it would be so bad?  


  
"Come on." I pulled him again . He obediently started walking behind me, stumbling periodically on the hills of the earth, but not falling. 

 

  
  
Overcoming the field, we got on the road and soon reached the bus stop.

  
On a small bench under the lights was sitting a man in a hat with a suitcase standing on the ground between his knees.   


  
Seeing us, the man nodded in a friendly manner. In appearance, he was around forty years old.  


  
"Zayn?" Louis called softly, when I let go of his hand. On the way here he sobered up a bit.  


  
In the distance were heard the noises of cars, moths were flying near the lantern, sometimes hitting their wings on the glass. The wind dangled the hems of the man's brown trench coat.  


  
I tried to track down the bus, but saw nothing of that sort, "What?"  


  
"I'm sorry." Sighing, I looked down on his cheek. He had a bright red line, from which still oozed scarlet blood.  


  
"Where did you get that?" I asked, taking his chin and lifting his face up to the light of the lantern.  


  
He tried to resist, but right now I was stronger than him. "Where did you cut your cheek?" I repeated the question more loudly, so he finally heard me.  


  
Twisting his face, he stopped trying, "Fell on the glass." He let out a sigh.  


  
"What glass?"  


  
"On the window glass. What is the difference?" He threw angrily.  


  
"If I'm asking, then to me THERE IS a difference." I raised my tone, and the man sitting on the bench looked at us questioningly.  


  
"I don't have to explain myself to you." Louis stubbornly hissed when I let go of his chin.   


  
"Yeah, you don't have to. And frankly, I don't give a shit where you were and what you were doing. Just carry your fucking phone with you, okay? And don't cause me problems." I snapped.   


  
I'm not proud of the fact that I fought him. It's never caused me the expected relief. Only guilt and regret, the desire to take it back.   
  
He just folded his arms on his chest and turned away from me like a resentful teenager.  
  
_My God_ , I thought, uttering a long, drawn-out sigh. The bus appeared in the distance, winking headlights.  
  
Waiting until it reached us, silently, we climbed inside. Louis took a seat closer to the window, I sat next to him. Our shoulders lightly touched, but he avoided any eye contact with me, staring out the window.   


  
I looked at his cheek. In darker lighting his blood seemed to be black resin. The scratch was pretty deep, and of course it wasn't disinfected.  
  
His face alternately changed shades as we passed lights or bright signs. Dark hair was ruffled, like if he was a newborn chick. For me he was like a child. We even fought the same way, but our relationship is difficult to be called childish. I don't remember when we crossed that line and it all went downhill. When I first met Louis, I didn't see him as bad or something like that, I still don't.   
  
Back then I carefully examined his features askance, afraid to meet his eyes. He was a normal teenager like me and he was supposed to be my step brother. Now, I'm not sure of anything. Who am I for him, and he for me? Brother? Only on the documents, we have no blood connection. Friend? But unless this is how friends behave? Lover? No. Although, there were moments when we seemed to be all three ways together.  


  
The entire trip he never said a word. I didn't know which was harder to bear: our arguments, or the complete, never-ending silence between us.  


  
After what seemed like an eternity we finally reached our apartment. I opened the door with my key, letting Louis walk inside.   


  
Right in the shoes, he rushed to the kitchen, leaving a trail of muddy steps. I shook my head in a manner of disappointed, but too tired to say anything mother. Traces of dirt on the linoleum shone under the bulb light.  
  
Throwing off my boots, I followed him. He was standing near the sink, drinking water from a glass, transparent drops trickled down his chin, falling on the clothes.   


  
“We need to disinfect your wound." I state in a calm tone, pulling out trom the kitchen cabinet First-Aid kit.   
  
Finishing his water, he puts the glass down on the table pointedly loudly.  


  
"I don't want to do that." He crosses his arms, waiting for my reaction. I'm so tired that I don't have the energy to argue with him. I take cotton wool and wet it with some disinfectant.  


  
"Give me thy cheek." I say to him. He shakes his head, stepping back. "Louis," I say in a pleading tone, "Please, stop fighting with me. I am very tired. Let's just get this over with."   


  
I deeply hope that he will agree, but this isn't happening. What a pity.  


  
"Then go sleep, and don't do shit! I'm fine without it!" He throws up his hands.   


  
Losing patience, I carefully approach him, and grab him by the collar with my free hand, pressing his whole body against the cupboard. Quiet moan of pain escapes him.   
  
I'm not saying a word, only looking into his eyes, clutching him tightly. His face expresses fear, something that I don't see often.   
  
Reassured, I let go of his wrist, but don't move, placing my hand on his hot neck.   


  
"What are you doing?" He whispers, trying to give his voice the confidence from before, but he didn't do a pretty good job out of it.  


  
"Cleaning your wound." The tiredness was back now, and I was calm again.  


  
He keeps his eyes on me, but I'm only busy with his wound. With every touch on his skin, he winces slightly, pursing his lips into a thin line.  


  
Suddenly his cold hand wraps around my wrist. He does nothing more, just holds me.  


  
Briefly I meet his eyes, and find them to be... Warm.  


  
“I'm sorry.” He says quietly. His voice suddenly became hoarse.  


  
I sigh heavily, “I know, Louis.”   


 

  
Somewhere deep down I knew. I was hoping that all this is just a side effect of the drugs he takes, and he's actually different.  


 

  
Cotton wool in my fingers was soaked with red blood, when I finally finished. Bandaging his cheek, I weakly smiled at him.  


 

  
"Let's go to sleep."  
  
  
  
  
*  


 


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter 4.  
  
  
  


*

_**Harry's POV** _   
  
  
  


"Are you done?" Galen was tired. He didn't like the fact that "some shots" take some much of my time. But you don't explain all the details of photography to the sculptor, it just doesn't make sense.  
  
  


I shrugged him off, trying to keep the camera steady.  
  
  


"You wanted to go with me yourself." I say, not looking up from the lens.   
  
  


"Yes, I was bored."  
  
  


"Well, have fun. Don't bother me, Galen."   
  
  


He sighs heavily but doesn't say a word more. Once again, I try to focus on the moment, watching the ducks swimming in the pond. The sun is scorching so much today, like in July. Heated fabric of my shirt burns my back, my feet feel numb already.  
  
  


I tried to capture the perfect moment. My attitude to photography was too anxious to spend on one photo less than fifteen minutes. I could sit here all day, waiting for the right frame. But, sometimes, in the pursuit of perfection you get the complete opposite.  
  
  


"If you're so tired, we could go and eat, and then I'll continue and you can go home." I offer, getting up from the squatting position.  
  
  


Galen's face lights up, "First good idea today."  
  
  


We went to a huge black carved gates. Pesky butterflies and striped bees were flying all around, in search of the pollen residues on the flowers. They are still blooming, exuding a sweet aroma.  
  
  


Under our feet sullenly rustled the fallen leaves, not allowing to forget that autumn is close and soon it will overtake the seemingly burgeoning world.  
  
  


Leaving the Park, we again found ourselves in the middle of the city, in its very midst. Past us raced the cars, the smell of their exhausts mixed with the aromas of fresh baking and perfume of some old lady.   
  
  


Galen pulled on my thin sleeve, transferring me across the street as soon as the green light came on.  
  
  


He was attracted by the smell of coffee coming from the small cafe on the other side. As soon as we walked in, Galen immediately ran to the counter, as if he didn't hurry, he would have something lacking.   
  
  


He is a big sweet tooth, coffee for him is like a drug. He told me that at one of our lectures. If he's not sculpted busts from the plaster, then he drank coffee.   
  
  


Behind the cash-desk stood a young girl in chocolate brown apron. Her auburn hair was pulled into a sloppy bun, she smiled friendly.  
  
  


I also thought about getting a job. Scholarship couldn't cover all my expenses. I could be sorting mail or washing dishes. Something not complicated, that doesn't require special skills.  
  
  


Amost all the tables here were free.   
  
  


In working days such coffee shops are mostly empty. People work, many of them have no time for lunch. That's funny, we work all day, all life, but then, in old age, it doesn't even matter. Perhaps, I am too young to think about it.  
  
  


At one of the round tables in the middle of the room sat an elderly couple. A man and a woman, they were very similar to each other: both had snowy white hair and numerous wrinkles on their faces. They talked quietly about something, sharing loving smiles.  
  
Looking at the couples like this, who probably have not only one pair of grandchildren and have lived together their whole lives, I wonder, will I be the same? Or, they both actually might hate each other, but to measure of age just live together out of habit? Yes, it seemed to me, for some reason, more plausible.  
  
  


I looked at the guy who sat alone at a table near the huge window. He was wearing only black clothes: sweater and jeans. From under knitted sleeves I could see the tattoo that covered his whole hand to the fingers. His head was lowered, dark jet black hair falling on the face. He wasn't looking at me, but I still recognized him as my neighbor. Zayn.

  
  


I was attracted to him at some point. How quiet he always was. It begged the comparison with a black wolf-hermit who lived in the dark forest. I wanted to watch him, but only from afar, to take pictures, but only if he wouldn't knew about it.  
  
  


As if reading my thoughts, he turned his head, removing fallen hair from his eyes with a mannered, easy motion of tattooed hand.

  
  


On his face was unreadable, some indifferent expression. Depicting politeness, he poorly smiled at me, barely waving his hand. My feet had carried me to him themselves, quickly and confidently.

  
  


  
  


"Hi." He said quietly, hoarsely.

  
  


"Can I sit here?" I asked, clutching the back of the chair. He nodded.

  
  


I sat down opposite him, placing a bag on my knees.

  
  


He looked at me, at my face and hands. My clothes and hair. So fast, but I still felt this weird tension.

  
  


As if assessing me as a commodity, not worth his attention, he again turned away to the window and I continued not to exist for him. Taking in hand a mug of something hot, he lifted white porcelain to his lips. 

  
  


  
  


"You look somehow tired." I noticed, looking carefully at him. It was the truth. Under his eyes were bags, and the skin was a little too pale and lifeless. Even the slow, wasteful movements betrayed his lack of sleep.

  
  


Licking his lips, he shrugged, "Couldn't fall asleep." 

  
  


"Why?" 

  
  


"Just a little too much coffee, that's all right." He offered me a smile, as if to show that there's really nothing to worry about. I noticed his strange similarity to drug addicts.

  
  


"Didn't expect to see you here." I said.

  
  


"Sometimes I come here for lunch before work." He took another sip, visibly shuddering as soon as the liquid touched his lips.

  
  


"What's your work?" 

  
  


"I'm a waiter in a bar." He wrapped his long fingers around the mug in front of him, and I noticed something strange on his right hand.

  
  


My mind involuntarily stiffened on the red-brown mark, the size of a large button. Before I could touch him, he quickly pulled the sleeves of his sweater down, hiding his hands under the table.

  
  


He visibly stiffened, as if I was some sort of danger.

  
  


"What happened to your hand?..." I quietly asked. He shook his head.

  
  


"Nothing, I just got burned."

  
  


"Of what?" I continued to settle, but not too aggressively, ready to retreat at any moment.

  
  


It got me, leaving a clear picture of his hands in my memory. It wasn't like the usual, accidental burn, as if he'd touched a hot stove.

  
  


"I don't know, it was an accident." He lowered his eyes to the table, starting to rummage in his pocket in search of something. He pulled out a crumpled pack of cigarettes.

  
  


"You can't smoke in here." I reminded him carefully. I expected that he'll flares up, but he just stood up and hurriedly went to the exit.  I didn't go after him.

  
  


"Hey, who was that guy?" Galen took Zayn's seat with two cups of coffee and a steaming loaf of bread in his hands.

  
  


"My neighbor."

  
  


He snorted, "He seemed strange to me, as soon as we walked in here. Is he okay?" He took a huge bite from the bread.

  
  


"As if you looked somewhere besides the counter of pastries when you walked in here."

  
  


*  
  
  


I left the café quickly. Waiting until Galen finished his two cups of coffee,we dispersed.

  
  


He didn't agree to come with me for the next three-hour photo shoot with nature and ducks. And I didn't insist on his presence.

  
  


I was clutching the camera, walking down the sultry, noisy street. Yesterday I got a call from Gemma, my sister. She asked would I mind if she copied the image of the protagonist of her new book from me. She's a writer, I've read her outlines, they definitely have something... Poetic. Of course, I'm not some sort of expert or critic. Moreover, she is my sister, and I would support her in any way, but I really liked the fragments that I had time to read secretly from her rough draft. She would never let me read them herself, she thought it was unfinished, imperfect, and it may be better. Although as for me, for a 17 year old girl she wrote pretty good stuff.

  
  


I wonder why she decided to choose me? Yes, I'm her brother, a very close person to her and she knows me inside out. But my life is pretty boring to write a book about it. I'm not Harry Potter, I'm just a student, very ordinary, nothing interesting happens to me.

  
  


Gemma lives with our mom now, in Doncaster, but soon promised to come and visit me and maybe even move here to live. Perhaps, in this case, I'd have to go back to mom. She's not young anymore, I wouldn't want to leave her alone. It was difficult for me to imagine her as an old woman, knitting scarves and reminiscing about better times.

  
  


Kicking the stones with my feet, I suddenly went into these not very pleasant thoughts for me. After all, my parents both aren't young, mom is already forty-one. And though she looks rather good, age makes itself felt, and if not for her yoga classes several times a week, who knows. Robin, my stepfather, recently he was diagnosed with asthma. I got so scared when one day during our common trip to the Mall he suddenly began to choke, eagerly catching his breath.  
  
Since then, he's less out of the house, and if he does, then only with Anne. She's afraid to let him go alone, saying that if anything happens, he wouldn't be able even to call an ambulance. He's already forty-eight. My mom married him when I was sixteen, before that, most of my life we lived without a father. My real dad, Des Styles, left mom when me and Gemma were little. She told me that mom kicked him out because he used to drink a lot. He always smelled of alcohol, I felt it as a little boy, when he used to come home, giving me a ride on his back.

 

Now, they are far away from me, but at any time I can hop on a train and rush to them, and they will always be happy to see me. But one day they won't, and I'll be alone for real. I was afraid to think about it, tried to avoid these scary thoughts about the death of loved ones. When grandma told me as a child that someday she won't be here with us anymore, I always cried, and she reassured me, hugging with the warm, sinewy hands. Now she's gone and I'm still not fully resigned to it.

  
  


I didn't notice as I walked into an unfamiliar area of the city. Even people and cars here seemed to be some sort of strangers.

  
Looking around, I turned back. Past me were running people, employed women and men in business suits with black folders under their armpits. It felt like I parted from the pace of the city, like a boy who lost mom in the supermarket. In mind flashed different thoughts about Louis and Zayn.

  
  


I don't really know any of them. One and the other show up in my life briefly, like shadows. But I'm so young, I'm only nineteen. What do I know about relationships with people? About love? I know nothing. I haven't had time to gain experience. I can only wait, to go with the flow until life itself will lead me somewhere. Or to someone.

  
  


  
  


I came home after an hour, sweaty and tired. Solar light almost didn't  break into my apartment, through the room walked a pleasant chill.

  
  


I left a bag in the bedroom, taking off my sweat-drenched clothes. In my underwear I went to the bathroom, stepping on the unpleasantly cold floor.  
  
None of the temperatures seem ideal. I'm always either too hot or too cold.

  
  


After a scalding-hot shower, I felt dryness in my throat. With only a towel wrapped around my waist, on tiptoed to the kitchen, leaving wet traces behind me.

  
  


Cold water from a glass caused a slight spasm in my throat, slipping into my stomach like an icy snake.

  
  


I stood near the open window crack in the kitchen, listening to the quiet hum of an old refrigerator.

  
  


I was hoping to see Zayn on the balcony, as usual, watering the flowers. But no one was there. No matter how closely I looked, trying to hear or see any movement, the flowers froze. Their leaves trembled in the wind, like the hems of the cloak of a dead soldier, dotting lonely with bright colors.

  
  


I poured the remaining water in the flower pot, leaving the empty glass on the windowsill. In its carved facets reflected the setting sun, at the ceiling appeared something like a multi-colored spots.   
  
I returned to the bedroom, putting on an old t-shirt, cream-pink in color, with the words "Green Day", and grey shorts, with a length just above my knees.

  
Taking the bag and the laptop, I laid everything out on the kitchen table. Writing notes-not the aquatic fun. But it was necessary, just like most things in life. They seem to be needed, but at the same time, not that much. I had to forget about the pain in my back for some more time, leaning over the notebook.

  
  


*

  
  


I spent few hours doing nothing but reading, searching, and writing things down. The streets have long gone dark, over the roads were flashing lanterns.

  
  


I was sitting in the kitchen, my face illuminated by the laptop screen. My eyes ached, as if someone dried them off, depriving of any liquid.

  
  


I had another half of the essay to finish before tomorrow. My eyes fell from the open browser page into the right corner of the screen. 11:03 pm.

  
  


Sighing, I looked out the window, noticing that Zayn has a light coming from his balcony. I smiled to myself. He was home. He was safe. I felt the need to care about someone. Maybe Zayn could be that person, we needed to get to know each other better. What if he's just as lonely as I am?

  
  


In a minute I drew my attention back to the laptop. Countless number of letters and their combinations were staring back at me from the screen. I've stopped to purely distinguish what I was writing or selecting.

  
  


Suddenly, the room lights go out, and I find myself in total darkness. I thought I went blind. Though, the rays of bright, almost full moon, that penetrated into the kitchen through the patterned curtains were still visible to me.

  
  


I sighed tiredly, raising up from the creaky old chair. Our Professor was a terrible pain in the neck. He was smart, well-read, the way he's supposed to be. But listening to his voice, you could fall asleep. On his lectures it was a horrible crime, he categorically doesn't tolerate any violations of the rules. He isn't accepting any excuses either. Excuse in style 'my light has blacked out ' also wouldn't work, and I knew it.

  
  


After collecting all my notebooks from the table, I did what seemed most logical in this situation. Throwing on my bag on the shoulder, I left the dark apartment to the staircase. Surprisingly, there was burning light. Dim, it blinked periodically, but still burned. So the problem wasn't that.

  
  


I sadly looked at the moths, beating against the hot surface of the bulb, coming up to the only neighbor's door on my floor. I didn't think twice, just knocked. At first quietly, but then more insistently.

  
  


I heard the jingle of keys. The door opened, Zayn appeared in front of me. He had no shirt, only dark camouflage sweatpants. His hair was ruffled, as if he just woke up.

  
  


I mentally cursed myself for not foreseeing this situation. _Yes, normal people sleep at night,_ I thought.

  
  


When he saw me, he smiled weakly, passing a hand over the back of his neck. He seemed so homey and soft, I wanted to touch him.

  
  


"Hi, Zayn. Em... Sorry for waking you up."

  
  


His eyes traveled down my body until they reached my bag. I clutched it tighter.

  
  


"It's fine. Did something happen?" He asked, raising his thick eyebrow.

  
  


" Yes. The light in my apartment, sort of, passed out." Something in my words made him smile, he folded his arms on the muscular tattooed chest.

  
  


"It happens. Probably just a fuse."

  
  


"Is it possible to fix it?" I asked, preparing to spend the night near the dashboard. He nodded.

  
  


"Yes, of course. Need to go down to the basement."

  
  


I sighed heavily.

  
  


"But I'm not gonna let you do that." He added.

  
  


I looked at him questioningly, "What? Why?"

  
  


Zayn chuckled, at the corners of his eyes appeared little wrinkles, "Because the key to the basement at Miss Brackins'. She's either already asleep or watching TV. And in that and in other case, she won't be happy if someone will interrupt her." He took a step back, "Come on in."

  
  


I really didn't know what I wanted, when knocked at his door. Nevertheless, the invitation to enter surprised me a little. His entrance hall was a little smaller than mine, and almost empty. In the corner of it stood an only shelf with shoes, and on the wall hung something like a poster with a bike pictured on it.

  
  


I immediately noticed just how illuminated his apartment was. The lights were on everywhere, even in empty rooms. I humbly walked over to the dark-brown sofa with peach colored crumpled plaid laying on it.

  
  


The layout was only slightly different from mine, though he had two times more furniture. In the middle of the living room also stood a sofa, just in front of it was a TV, with only one difference: the small screen has been broken.

  
  


From the open balcony doors blew cold night wind, and I involuntarily shivered.

  
  


In cases such as this, even the clutter seemed to be some sort of element of the interior that adds comfort. Looking at Zayn's apartment, it was clear that someone lives here. Someone lonely, living a solitary life. The guy that takes care of his flowers as if they were his children.

  
  


"You can sit at the table in the kitchen, because my bedroom is just a horrific mess."

  
  


I smiled weakly, "Good. Um, Zayn? You don't have a laptop? I kinda need it...." I felt awkward and insolent for such requests. It wasn't enough for me to just wake him up, now I'm invaded in his apartment and demanded the laptop.

  
  


He nodded, disappearing behind the half-opened bedroom door. After a moment, he returned with a thin laptop in his hands.

  
  


"Thank you."

  
  


I hurriedly went to the kitchen, Zayn followed me relentlessly.

  
  


All of my movements, as I sat down at the table and laid before me my stuff, it all looked too careful and neat. I couldn't relax completely.   
  
Zayn stood up near the sink and began to wash the dishes. I stole a glance at his back, his muscles were moving in unison with movements of the hands, making his tattoos come alive. They were very beautiful. Quaint Oriental patterns covered most of his body. At the top of his back, right between his shoulder blades, he had a stuffed bird sitting on a branch.  
  
  


When the water ceased to make noise, he asked, "Want something to drink? Coffee, tea?"

  
  


I shook my head, waiting for Windows to load. He wiped his hands off a dish towel in bright green stripes, sitting down across from me. "What's your major?" He asked.

  
  


"Huh? Mine?"

  
  


"Yes." He smiled warmly, his eyes seemed even darker, even more bottomless in this lighting, "what's your major?" He asked again, holding his chin with his fingers. He wore many rings.

  
  


"I'm going to be a photographer." I said.

  
  


He quickly licked his lips, studying my Polaroid photos that were lying in front of him on the table. One he took in hand, giving a special attention to it.

  
  


"That's the beautiful one." He said, showing me the photo. It was an old picture of my mother and sister. I must have took it with me by accident.

  
  


"This is my mom and sister." I explained, not taking my eyes off from their smiling faces and sparkling eyes. Even in the photo they look so alive and... far away.

  
  


"Your sister looks like you." He noticed. This comparison made me smile.

  
“Yeah, but she has mother's eyes. Mine I got from our father."  
  
"Do you have his photo?"   
  
I shook my head, "No, he left before I took the camera in hand."  
  
"He left you?" Zayn asked with a clear note of penetration in the voice. I was touched by his interest, though, probably it was only a courtesy.  
  
"Yes, when I was little."  
  
He looked at me, as if trying to see an old friend in me. Finally he said, "My father also left us. Then I was sixteen."  
  
"I'm sorry." I felt stupid saying that, this phrase was so trite, people said it just out of politeness, boredom, almost never meaning it. I'm not much different from them, but I understand Zayn at this point.  
  
“Me too.”Was his response.  
  
*

  
  


We spent half the night together. I was writing the essay, periodically answering Zayn's questions or asking my own.

  
  


He hardly spoke, mostly just listened, keeping on me soft chocolate eyes. This was a feature I liked in him. Usually people don't look each other in the eye during a conversation, many feel embarrassing because of that, but not him.

  
  


"Thank you for giving me your laptop. And, sorry for waking you up." I started to gather my things from the table. Zayn reluctantly rose up from the chair. He looked somehow tired and passive.

  
  


"No problem." He said, escorting me to the door.

  
  


When I got home, it was half past three in the morning. I already knew how out of sort and tired I'll feel in the morning if I go to bed now.  
  
Passing the dark living room, I heard someone's hollow voices coming from the street, wafting up to me through the open window.

  
  


Entering the bedroom, I saw the long white curtains shaking wildly in the wind, like two great Ghosts playing catch-up. Weather changes again, it's possibly going to rain tomorrow.

  
  


I yawned tiredly, unbuttoning my shirt. Removing the jeans, I hung them on the headboard of the bed. In my boxers, I closed the window and climbed under the cold covers, they still smelled of lavender after washing.   
  
Despite the fatigue, I couldn't sleep. I laid, staring at the ceiling. I thought about mom, about my sister. About my stepfather, Robin, and my real dad. Zayn told me that his parents are divorced too. But he was less fortunate than me. With his mom's new husband he got a stepbrother.  
  
  
*

 


	5. Chapter 5

NEIGHBORS

 

Chapter 5.

 

*

 

_**Zayn's POV** _

 

 I was sitting at a table in the kitchen, in front of me laid a white sheet of paper. Clean, like new-fallen snow. Words wouldn't come to mind, the lines blurred, not wanting to emerge into one. Outside the window, dawn broke, weak, sickly pale color was touching my cheek. Through the piles of fluffy, dense clouds it was difficult to distinguish the sun. The sky was as white as my sheet of paper.

I got up and turned off all the lights in the apartment. I was hoping that Louis will be back, so left the lights on. He doesn't like the dark.

  
Suddenly doorbell rang, I shuddered. It was unusually demanding and loud. Throwing on a t-shirt, I reluctantly went to the door. I was expecting it to be Harry, or at least Miss Brackins. Louis never rings in the doorbell, he has the key.

  
My hopes weren't proved: on the threshold stood my sister, Doniya.

 

"Doniya?" I asked as if I wasn't sure. She grinned, stepping forward and enclosing me into a hug. She was so slender, so fragile, but in fact, quite strong.

 I pressed her to myself, stroking the long black hair, collected in a ponytail.

"Hello, little brother." Even though I was older than her, I had nothing against being called "little".

"Why are you here?" I asked her, "Come on inside."

 When we both walked into the kitchen, I remembered the ritual of a hospitable host and asked, "Want some tea? I would've offered something else, but we have an empty fridge."

 I checked again to be sure, the white hulk was empty. She sat down on a chair, clamping her hands between her knees.

"No, I don't want anything, thank you Zayn. Actually, that's not what I came here for. " She shivered uncomfortably. I felt in my gut that something was wrong.

"What happened?" I folded my arms on my chest, as if preparing to take a blow.

 She sighed, examining a silver bracelet, dangling freely on her wrist.

"Our father is sick. Seriously sick. Mom wants us to come to him in Brighton." Her sad eyes glanced at me.

"I can't leave." I said, perhaps too coldly. He was my father, but since he had gone to Brighton for the implementation of his long-held dream, and I was old enough to move out from my mother and live alone, we became absolute strangers. Last time I talked to him three years ago.

"Why?"

"I have a job here. And the house. I live here, Doniya. Where will I go?" The problem wasn't that. Actually, I just didn't want to see him. Neither him or my mother. As if they never existed in my life. Yes, it's selfish. But they did nothing so I could think of them differently.

"You can always take a day off. Zayn, he is our father. You can't just forget about it." Obviously, she was trying to cause me a twinge of conscience. This trait in her awfully reminded me of our mother.

I sighed, running a hand through my tousled hair. 

"I can't forget? And what about him? He forgot about us, Doniya. Left his four children. And now I have to leave everything and rush to him because he's supposedly sick?" My reasoning wasn't completely fair, and I knew it. But I was absorbed by a feeling of injustice, as if I was back in childhood. When mom and dad were so caught up in figuring out their own relationship that they had comletely forgotten about us. Just me and Doniya were able to work and to get at least some little money. How can she not remember that?

"Not "supposedly", he really is sick. This might be the last chance to see him, are you really gonna just say no?"

"Yes, Doniya." I nodded, as if giving my words more credibility, "Yes."

She disappointedly shook her head, not taking from me a scolding look. Without a saying word more, she got up from the chair, and went into the hallway.

"If you change your mind, call me. The train leaves tonight ." She said and left, closing the door behind her.

I heard the remote thuds of her heels on the cracked tiles of the staircase.

 

*

 

_**Harry's POV** _

 

Running around the apartment in just a t-shirt and boxers, I was looking for my socks. I overslept and the alarm, for some reason, didn't ring. Or it did, but my sleep was too indestructible.

Throwing a quick glance at the clock, my stomach tightened into a knot: 15 minutes remained until the beginning of the lecture.

"Damn it...." I pulled on the jeans that were scuttered on the floor, with holes cut out at the knees. I was already wearing an old black t-shirt with the word "Nirvana" on it, and I found two not matching socks. Grabbing my bag and shoving my feet into the boots, I rushed out of the apartment.

 

 It was cool outside, viscous, thick fog was quickly spreading. Distant houses had already drowned in the white milk.

  
In the sky were gathering the storm clouds. Large and dark, they encroached, like a pack of grizzly bears. At any moment their deafening roar will be heard, and they'll start pouring water.

Holding the bag with one hand, I started running. My loose long hair was waving in the wind, blowing up, and then falling again, crashing on my shoulders.

Over the loud knocks of my heels on the asphalt, I suddenly heard a melody of my own mobile phone. I wanted to ignore it, but the ringing continued insistently and I slowed down, fishing it out from the bottom of my bag.

On the screen displayed unknown number. I pressed the phone to my ear.

"Yes, who is it?" I asked, my breathing got a little carried away.

"Louis." Was heard in the reciever.

"Louis? How did you get my number?" I switched to a quick walking, my side began to prick.

He proudly chuckled, "I have my ways."

I couldn't help but rolling my eyes at that, though he couldn't see, "Yeah, okay. But seriously?"

"If seriously, your friend Galen gave it to me. He's such a sweet guy, huh?"

I nodded, “Well, yeah. But why are you calling?”

"I thought that... maybe we should go out somewhere? What do you think?" His voice sounded insecure, though he tried to hide it under the fairly cheerful tone. I smiled to myself, "Like a date?"

"If you want."

 I bit my lip, slowing down. The University building was just around the corner, its gray walls were peeping through the green crowns of the trees.

“I-”

"Hey, Harry!" Galen ran up to me from behind, all dishevelled and breathless. Noticing the phone in my hand, he silently nodded.

"I'll be free from the library at six."

"I'll meet you there." Louis said and hung up.

I shoved the phone in my jeans pocket, looking at Galen. He drilled me some sort of sly look, having a smirk on his face.

"What?"

"You know. Who was it? Spill it, dude."

 I looked down, removing a black scrunchie from my wrist and pulling it on my hair, "Louis. And by the way, I actually should be offended at you for telling him my number. What the hell, Galen? How about my privacy?"

 

His face changed dramatically, he was so surprised at my reproach that even became speechless for a second.

"Me? Well, apparently, you should be thanking me." He turned away with a feigned offense. I playfully poked him in the shoulder, "We'll see about that, Galen.”

 

*

 

"Just look at that." Galen handed me a large and heavy book with glossy pages, pointing to a photograph of a sculpture of some women. She was leaning over the pond, scooping up non-existent water with a plaster jug.

 

I nodded in approval, "Yeah, cool."

Galen looked at the picture with such adoration and interest, like a man who just perceived the meaning of life. "It's 19th century." He said to me.

Yawning, I lifted my head up, looking at the clock that ticked so loudly.

Thin, like the legs of a butterfly, hands showed five minutes to 6.

"Galen?" I whispered in his ear. He mumbled questioningly in response.

"I'll go, okay? You're staying?"He silently nodded.

_Too busy to talk_ , I thought with a smile, taking my bag from the back of the chair and hanging it on my shoulder.

Stepping on a soft, dark blue carpet, which completely muffled the sounds of my steps, I walked out of the library.

 

Bright daylight blinded me, it took me a few seconds to get used to it. When I opened my eyes again, in front of me stood Louis. My heart slightly trembled, but I kept a poker face.

 

"Hi." He said, standing so close that I could feel the heat coming from his body. Making a careful step back, I smiled politely.

"Hi." On his face I noticed a long scratch, almost on the entire length of his right cheek, "How'd you scratch?" I asked quietly.

"I fell." He replied, taking my hand and interwining our fingers.

"Fell?" I raised my eyebrow. He nodded eagerly, pulling me down the stairs.

"Where are we going?"

"Well, I had planned to take you to the cafe, if you don't mind?"

I shook my head, "No, that sounds great actually."

 

*

 

We chose a small cafe a few blocks from my University.

 

The café was two-storey. It was warm and smelled scented candles.

On the ground floor sat the usual visitors, and upstairs was something like a VIP area, it was empty. Across the room were hanging festoons, they were burning, exuding a pale yellow light. At the round tables stood candles: two small ones and one larger.

Between the visitors darted deft waiters in aprons the colors of the sea. Louis led me to a table in the corner. It had the only difference: instead of chairs were soft puffs of a cream color.

"It's beautiful here." I said as we sat down. Louis put his hands on the table, tapping his thumbs together.

"Yeah, not bad. I've never been here before. My friend recommended me this place." With his thin fingers, he handed me the menu in a brown cover. The sleeve of his leather jacket sticked up a bit, I noticed bruises on his knuckles, dark purple and scarlet colored.

It caused me an uneasy feeling of helplessness and fear.

Opening the menu, I quickly ran my eyes over the names of the dishes. I ordered a Caesar salad, a cup of tea and a chocolate muffin. Louis amounted to nothing more than a cup of soup.

I couldn't help but notice how much he emaciated. Not only for those three years, but for those two days until we saw each other. Like he was melting on my eyes, his protruding cheekbones casted angular shadows.

He raised his eyes to me, smiling warmly.

"How's your mom?" He asked.

Before, we didn't talk about our parents. Tried to leave them somewhere beyond the line of our young lives. My mom didn't like Louis, thought he was too old for me. His parents weren't happy with me either, I was afraid that their mutual, though not a strong dislike could hurt us.

Shortly after our meeting, the mother of Louis had died in a car accident. Her death knocked him down so much, along with his father. Troy even drank heavily for a while.

I folded my hands on my chest, cautiously considering other visitors. "She's fine. Didn't want me to go. Gemma stayed with her."

Louis nodded. Between us poised a silence. Stretchy and sticky, like a chewing gum, which wouldn't unstick from the shoe sole. None of the questions seemed appropriate, I didn't want to ask him about his father. It was obviously a sore subject.

After 15 minutes they brought us meals. Picking up the fork from the cold steel, I started stabbing it in the salad, getting the small tomatoes and shoving them into my mouth.

Louis reluctantly scooped up a half-full spoon of his gray fish soup.

"Where do you live?" I finally asked when the silence became too unbearable. He raised his eyes to me, moist lips glistened in the white light of garlands.

"I rented an apartment. Not a luxury mansion, but I can live."

"Why you and dad went out of Doncaster?"

He smiled, "I thought you were glad I was gone?"

I felt a twinge of guilt, but still continued, "No, I wasn't. I... was upset, but I didn't want you to just disappear, without a word."

He sighed, "My father met another woman. She was there on a pass and, well, he really liked her. They talked on the phone a lot, and then he decided to marry her. As if she was his salvation, the light at the end of the tunnel or somethinh. So we left for Bradford, that's where she lived with her four children, who was extremely lucky to become my step-sisters and a brother." He ironically smiled. By his smile it wasn't clear how he feels about the whole situation and his new family.

It seemed that he didn't care. His face expressed indifference and fatigue.

I gently put a hand over his motionless, tiny wrist.

"It was hard for you?.." Dumb question, but I could not to ask him. I needed a reason to start feeling sorry for him. To say the words of regret, from which no one can actually feel better. But there is nothing better I could do.

"Yes... It was. I try to forget about it."

"Louis... You don't have to forget about it. About your mother. She's with you until you remember her. And your father didn't forget, it's just-"

"He's so blind, Harry. I don't understand. They always played happy family in front of me and what happened? As soon as she died he immediately married another woman." His voice broke and was hoarse, he tried not to raise the tone, but it was difficult. He seemed so lost, so unappreciated, like a boy who lost a toy. He kept it inside and it was eating him up.

  
He pulled his hand from under mine, burrowing his fingers in brown hair.

"I'm sorry." He said, his voice resembled the scrape of boots on linoleum. "I try to forget about it. It doesn't matter now, but... I can't even visit her grave." He went silent, as if strength to speak had left him.

I had nothing to say. I wanted to support him, but nothing except the words "I'm sorry" was going in the head.

Hunger was no longer felt, I wanted to run away,or perhaps, to hide. I put down the fork and asked the waiter to bring us the bill.

"What are you doing?" Louis asked quietly, askance.

"We'll go somewhere else." I replied, not meeting his eyes. I wanted to go out. Such a large concentration of people suddenly disturbed me. I didn't like to be the object of a public attention.

Outside it was already dark, in the club across the street played loud music, the neon lights were flashing, reflecting in the puddles on the pavement, staining them to a fabulous purple color. Louis didn't say a word, but didn't argue either.

Paying for dinner, we left the venue, finding ourselves in the dark, endless street.

  
*

  
Zayn's POV

  
I waited until the last. Hoping that the train will just leave, and I'll have nothing to regret about. I'll just miss my flight, and it will be the solution.

The clock hand was approaching nine in the evening, I was holding the phone, sitting on an old sofa. In my hand was smoking a cigarette. My head felt already sick from the smell, but I couldn't without it. I was weak, and I hated myself for it. For not having the ability to control my own body and mind. I became a hostage of a nasty habit, which was myself.

I needed a push. Magic kick in the ass that would force me to do something. I was hoping that Doniya would call me. I wish she made one last effort, literally forced me to go.

But the phone was silent.

She didn't pity me, saddling the whole burden of making a decision on my shoulders.

"I have to go..." I continued in vain to persuade myself. I had to do at least something, to get out of the four walls in which I had locked myself.

Sometimes I felt like I was losing my mind. I was so indifferent that it even became scary. I didn't know where to go, and was afraid that I brought myself to this state. And when I found this apartment, and Louis, that became my sticking point.

The phone vibrated in my hand, causing my heart to sink.

"Hello?" I pressed the cold metal to my burning cheek.

"Zayn? This Is Doniya. Sorry to bother, but I was wondering if you changed your mind?" It was the last straw. The last thread that wasn't allowing me to budge.

"Yes. Yes, I changed my mind. I'm coming."

 

*

 

 

 

 


	6. Chapter 6

 

Chapter 6.

 

_**Zayn's POV** _

My father's house was a complete raunch. The changing mix of Oriental tones with hints of country and obvious signs of an inveterate bachelor is clearly not stuck in a small one bedroom apartment. A typical apartment of the old man, who was alone in his old age and loves fishing. He lived on the second floor right near the shore. It was impossible to get in the building without gaining a sand in the shoes. Must have for this father came to Brighton: to carelessly spend the rest of his life on the beach, breathing in the nitrogen, and not worrying about some sand in the old, battered boots.

 

That's how I imagined it.

 

The train arrived in the middle of the night, and frankly, I didn't really care about the views of the city, I fell asleep in taxi. The rest of the road lay through the sand and, and our driver refused to take us further.

  
Taking our stuff, we got out of the car. The smell of the sea hit my nose, causing some sudden cheerfulness.   
Before us revealed the beach, which seems to have no end. Its sandy coast was washed by dark water, the middle of which shone a huge white hole - the reflection of the moon. It's always visible, you can't escape from it.

  
"How do you know where he lives, our father?" I asked Doniya why then in a whisper, as if I might wake someone. Around echoed the laughter of the guy. Apparently, it was coming from the beach, some guys built there a fire, their drunk conversations were heard all through the neighborhood.

  
She walked ahead of me, merging with the dark bottomless sky full of stars. Under her feet crunched the sand, her feet was drowning in it.

  
"I was here once." She replied, also whispering. Perhaps she was as scared as I am. I felt a slight sting of resentment. I don't know why. But I tried to prove to myself that it's not the father and not that she, and possibly all of my other sisters visited him without telling me. "Why are you silent?" She asked after a moment, forcing me to speak again.

  
"When?"

  
"Last year. I used to come here. But Safaa and Waliyha didn't go with me. Our mother didn't let them." I involuntarily smirked. It happens when we talk about our mother. She's such a hypocrite.

  
Donya noticed it. "You know, we all are not perfect. And I understand you, but I also understand her. We made mistakes, but now, perhaps this is our chance to fix it?" Suddenly she stopped, turning to face me, on her bag jingled breloque of a cherry blossom branch.

"What?"

  
"We're here." She pointed to a three-story apartment building. Even in such a blur it was evident that the whitewash of its walls badly cracked, and now resembled crowns of a dry trees. The steps to the porch were slowly crumbling from old age, losing its erstwhile form. On the second floor was a light, breaking through a layer of thick, dark brown curtains.

  
I imagined the mother sitting on a chair beside dad's bed and wiping the sweat from his flushed forehead.

  
"Let's go." The first step crumbled under my foot, causing a minor heart attack.

  
In the entrance was wet and cool. Must be in the days when the sun beats down mercilessly, people can take refuge in here. "What floor?" I asked, rising higher with each step. She walked behind me. We both tried to walk as quietly as possible. Both, as if guilty cats, we felt something was wrong.

  
"The second one."

  
Something began to stir in my stomach, a nasty worm that causes my palms to sweat. Old resentment and fear. My assumptions were confirming, and if I see my mom with a compress in hand, I probably would laugh like crazy.

  
To my surprise, she didn't knock. There was nothing that would give me more time to prepare and not to throw up right on the doorstep. She just pulled the handle and opened the door. I felt the smell of drugs, sharp and heady, killing any desire to go inside.

  
Doniya threw a one last look at me, as if saying, 'You can still run,' and went inside, disappearing from the hallway. I softly closed the door behind me, trying to find the keys but they were nowhere to be seen. The light wasn't on, and I couldn't find the switch.

  
Not knowing if I should remove my shoes, or to carry sand further into the apartment, I chose the latter. Going forward, I saw the entrance to the kitchen. Small, designed only for one person, because no one else would fit there. On the walls in a narrow corridor hung paintings in the marine theme: landscapes of the seas and sailboats.

  
At the end of it was another door; it was ajar, and from there trickled down the ray of light, as if inviting me in. The room echoed with women's voices.

  
I grabbed the handle and slightly pushed the door forward. Every fiber in my body didn't want it, but running away was not an option anymore. I wouldn't be able to escape unnoticed.

  
Horrible, sick, but at the same time painfully predictable picture appeared to my eyes. In a double bed, standing in the middle of a small room, lay the father, hidden in the pile of blankets. His eyes were open, hair was soaked with sweat, sticking together, and a long, bushy beard hid his mouth and chin.

  
He weakly smiled at me. It's only been three years, but time is mercilessly sucked out all the juice out of him. He was fading before my eyes.

  
I approached him and awkwardly sat on the edge of his bed, it creaked. He made a pathetic attempt to touch my hand, but he wasn't strong enough, or simply couldn't get out from under the blankets. Mother watched me, as if we were in the plot and I hopelessly failed in our plan. With reproach. She didn't expect to see me. But my selfishness was not that great. It was a tiny baby comparing to her.

  
"Zayn, son, I'm glad you came." He croaked so quietly, that if I hadn't seen him, I would never have known it's him. The years of smoking have finally poisoned his voice and lungs. Am I going to look the same way?

I put my hand on the hillock, which was supposed to be his shoulder.

  
"I'm glad, too, father. I'll be here as long as you need, okay?" It didn't sound like me, it felt like I was looking at myself from the third person point of view, these words didn't belong to my common sense. In me was speaking conscience and regret, that had gotten me up at this point.

  
"Trisha," He turned to my mother. She was dressed in all black like for the funeral. Through her silk blouse could be seen the outline of the bra. "Could you and Doniya leave us alone for a minute? I want to talk to my son." Mom was obviously surprised at such a request, but any resist was gone. She exchanged glances with my sister and they both disappeared, closing the door.

  
I looked at father. He was calm, his chest slowly rose and fell under a pile of blankets. He reached for my hand: his skin was dry and cold, though his forehead was dripping with sweat.

  
I reached for the handkerchief lying next to him on the blanket, wiping away the shiny drops.

  
"I didn't think you'd come. Your mother said you were too busy."

  
I shook my head, "No, I was able to find the time, father. "

  
"Good." He nodded, like that of an old man. "I hope you're all well? Your mother is not bothering you much?"

  
"No. I do not live with her."

  
"I know that, Zayn. She isn't calling you, right?" I didn't reply. Father, even though cared very little about the welfare of his children, he always was on my side. I don't want my words to be the cause of their quarrel with my mom.

  
Finally I said, "No, she calls sometimes. Rarely." On his face appeared a faint smile, and his eyes turned into narrow slits, covered with sparse eyelashes.

  
"Good."

  
I was sitting next to him until he fell asleep. Must have been a long time. When I walked out of the bedroom, Doniya was already gone to the store for some sort of medication, and the mother sat in the kitchen, drinking tea.

  
Her face was dominated by a form of continued arrogance. She also ignored me when I walked into the room to get a drink of water.

 

Any of us, sooner or later had to step over our egos, and it was me.

  
"What about dad?" I took a sip. Her thin, graceful fingers were clutching a mug of a green color . On the ring finger shone a wedding ring.

  
"He's sick." She stated.

  
"I get it." I started to get upset, but stopped in time, "What's his illness?" I continued in a more calm tone.

  
"I thought he told you?"

  
"No. Otherwise I wouldn't ask you." She turned to me, placing the mug on the table with a loud thud.

  
"And you definitely need a reason to talk to your mother." I could not to sigh. She was purposefully trying to piss me off. If she wanted a boycott, I agreed to it. It seemed the best solution for us anyway. We just didn't get along, it was some sort of genetic enmity, rising somewhere from the depths.

  
"No." Was all I said. I again wanted to run away, to be in mine and Louis' apartment, seeing no one. But now it was too late. I was in my father's kitchen in Brighton. The only thing I could do is to drown in the sea.

  
"You know, I was surprised when your father asked you to come."

  
"I thought it was you?"

  
She frowned, "No, why? Your sister told you so?"

  
I nodded, folding my arms on my chest. "Well, it wasn't me." She again turned away, looking somewhere into the distance through the window glass. From across the water surface was slowly rising scarlet sun.

  
"Mom, what do you want?" I sat on the stool next to her, putting my hands on the table. I wanted to touch her, to feel at least some contact. She was unapproachable, like a fence under electricity.

  
She sighed, her shoulders visibly sagged.

  
"You know, Zayn, I didn't expect you to come. But I..." The words came hard, but she tried to make an effort. Even if she didn't, I'd be grateful for her diligence, "I'm glad you did."

  
"I couldn't do otherwise. He's my father."

  
"Yes, I know that you're not here for me..." She let out another heavy sigh.

  
"Mom," I put my hand over her thin fingers. The mug was scalding hot, how she could still holding it? "I came for both of you. I care about you, mom. But understand me, you put me in this situation." She nodded several times, her eyes seemed to fill with liquid.

  
"I know I'm a bad mother." She muttered in a trembling voice.

  
"No, it's not true."

  
"It is, Zayn. You think the same, I know it." And she started crying. Quietly, her shoulders twitched silently, she covered her face with her hands.

  
I could only put my hand on her thin bony shoulder, waiting until she calms down. It happened pretty soon, she went completely quiet, stopped moving, froze like a statue.

 

She didn't say another word. I got up and went to the bathroom to take a shower.

  
Climbing into the bathtub and turning on the hot water, my attention was attracted by a small black spider. It was twining its web in the corner of the ceiling, unaware. It is so small and trifling: if I kill it, no one will notice. No one will care, because it's just a spider. There are millions of them out there.

  
Some lives just aren't important. They pass by, over, and nobody has a clue about it. No one is interested. That's my dad, he's that little spider. He lived a life briefly and quietly. He is only 44, and who dies at 44? His own habits and beliefs had destroyed him. You can always blame the insidious fate, but in the end, we choose the path to go on. And if you aren't strong enough to make a difference - you can die, not advancing far.

 

I sat in the shower: hot streams of water were rolling down my body like snakes, leaving red marks. Hair soaked wet and was sticking to the back of the head. I squeezed the burn left by Louis. It still gaped with a bright red stain on my hand, lost among the countless tattoos. I even thought that it still ached, but I guess, it's just my imagination.

 

*

 

_**Harry's POV** _

 

I returned home when it bloomed. All night I and Louis were aimlessly roaming around the city as long as we could before our feet began to buzz from walking.

_"Do you think about her?"_

  
_"Yes, constantly." He smiled warmly, looking at his feet as we walked along the dark and quiet streets. "It seems to me that as long as I think and talk about her, she's alive." His voice was similar in sound to the out-of-tune violin. He was like a child from the orphanage: you could watch him but could do nothing to help him. "Can we stop? I'm tired of walking."_

  
_I nodded and we turned into a Park. In the dark nature looked creepy, tree trunks resembled twisted human bodies, and the grass seemed to have bottomless abyss._

  
_His dark silhouette stopped in front of a high tree. He sat down on the grass, leaning his back against a thick trunk. I sat down beside him, our shoulders touching._

  
_Somewhere I heard the chirping of crickets, they were everywhere and nowhere at the same time. Cars almost stopped going, the sounds of their motors no longer could break the dead silence. Right above our heads rustled the leaves. I ran my fingers over the coarse grass, finding and taking his cold hand in mine._

  
_I squeezed his fingers, drawing circles with my thumb on the outside of his palm._

  
_"Tell me what happened." I said into the darkness, as if he wasn't there, was only his dead hand._

  
_"I already did." He said._

  
_"No. You didn't say anything. You're worried because of your mother's death. But is this the case?"_   
_He was silent, but I tried not to push. His hand remained motionless. I wanted to squeeze it even more to find out if he feels my touch, but didn't._

 

  
_"Have you ever loved?"_

  
_I didn't know what to say. What kind of love he had in mind? Love to my family, or to him? Everyone loves their parents, to some extent, and I am no exception. I never doubted it. But if I loved Louis? I liked him. I never thought about it, it wasn't really necessary. I just was with him while I could._

  
_"Be honest." He added._

  
_"I don't know. You did?"_

  
_He sighed, "I loved my mom. It's weird. Sometimes I hated her. I was ready to kill her, but if I did, I'd probably commit suicide the next day."_

  
_"It's... Understandable."_

  
_She never scolded him. If he was guilty in something, she just stayed silent, neither saying a word. This was the worst punishment for Louis. He used to say that she reminded him of the birch: the same quiet, fragile, and immobile. In these moments he felt like a shit for upsetting her._

  
_"No. Not for me, anyway. She was my everything. I lived for her. That was my mistake. Now, when she's gone, I have nothing left." In the dark I particularly acutely felt his pain. I know how it feels to lose a loved one, but it never will compare to what Louis is experiencing._

  
_He squeezed my hand, for the first time I felt his liveliness. "Let's go. The day will break soon."_

 

He said nothing more. Just walked me to the entrance, and fled in an unknown direction, like a night vision.

 

  
I was sitting at the kitchen table, looking out the window at the passing milky clouds. In front of me was steaming scrambled eggs. I pulled it apart on the plate, eating almost nothing.

  
In the bedroom rang my phone. It rang annoyingly loud, hurting my ears. I stood up, hastily going to the source of the sound.

  
"Yes?"

  
"Harry?" On the other end was my older sister. She sounded worried.

  
"Yeah, it's me. Hi, Gemm."

  
"Why didn't you answer your phone last night? Mom was worried. What were you doing?" I completely forgot about the phone. Must have left it on charge all day.

  
"I studied until late."

  
"Lying?"

  
"No. What do you mean? Did I ever lie?"

  
"No. But I'm worried too. Anything can happen in the big city... How are you doing? All right? I hope you're not overloaded with school?" I rolled my eyes.

  
"Gemm?"

  
"What?"

  
"You're turning into mom. Do you know that?" I just could not help but smile, imagining how my sister is lecturing her future children.

"Ha Ha. I'm serious."

  
I flopped down on the bed, letting the dust scatter across the room. "I'm more than okay. No worries." I said.

  
"Okay. But here's the thing, if you ever ignore my calls, I'll come and find you."

  
"I know you will."

  
"Okay. Good day to you, little brother. We love you."

  
"I love you all too. Bye." I said softly, before hearing the long, annoying beeps.

  
I was staring at the ceiling until different vague images began to swim in front of my eyes.

 

*

 

_**Zayn's POV** _

 

I drank coffee in the kitchen when in father's bedroom was heard a deafening scream of my mother.

  
"Zayn! Zayn, come here!! Hurry, your father is having another attack..."

  
Like a frightened rabbit, I took off. Bursting into the bedroom, I found mom standing beside his bed, she was giving him CPR, he wasn't moving.

  
"Help me, Zayn, Help!" She was one step from crying, her voice was outright panic. I flew to the father, folded hands, pushing at his chest like she did, only stronger.

  
Mom ran out of the room in search of a phone to call an ambulance.

  
I was looking at my father, unable to take my eyes off of him. He froze. He no longer seemed alive. At first, I was scared. I didn't want, didn't want him dead. No. Panic washed over me like a tsunami, I pressed my ear to his chest, tried to find a pulse on his pale wrist, but to no avail.

  
Mother came back after what seemed like an eternity, in her hand was a phone. For the first time I noticed her bright red nail Polish.

"They will be here soon."

Everything was happening as if in a dream. The paramedics arrived, three men in white coats with a stretcher. They took down the father, me and my mother went in the car with them. I don't remember how, but when we arrived at the hospital, Doniya was already there. She rushed up to me, hugging for some reason, but I felt like I was somewhere else, not in my body.

  
She sat me on a plastic chair, around were snooping people: doctors and just visitors. Their white robes blinded me, it's like they took all the air, had absorbed all the oxygen.

 

  
I couldn't breathe.

 

*

 


	7. Chapter 7

Chapter 7.

 

_**ZAYN** _

 

"Sir? Wake up." Delicate feminine fingers impatiently tugged at my shoulder. I opened my eyes, letting her melodious voice to seep into my foggy mind. She loomed above me, all in white, like a pure innocent angel in a grey colorless world, blinding me in the lights of the hospital lamps. "You need to leave. Visiting time is long over." She announced, immediately walking away, banging her heels on the white floor.

 

  
From the reception Desk a young boy looked at me. In his gaze was reading a complete indifference to what is happening around, he was so tired, glasses of scientist helplessly slid down his nose. Before him stood an empty mug of coffee with brown streaks. Must have left its mark on the desk too.

 

  
His eyes followed me blankly when I stood up and walked past him to the glass doors, behind which could be seen an impenetrable darkness, as if it was the door into space.

 

Insidious cold air immediately penetrated under my jacket, nipping the skin with its icy fingers.

 

I didn't know the city nor the road. I forgot how much time I had spent in this hospital. Maybe a day. Or two?

 

  
I can come to the father's house, and no one will be there. I'll run into a new family with a baby and a dog, who settled there in search of new beginnings. There won't be any pathetic reminders of the previous owner, nothing but my memories that can only be a figment of my own imagination.

 

Why did I come here? A moment of weakness. Or at least the desire to change something? To feel? When you are at peace for such a long time, even the most sophisticated ways to shake yourself don't seem to be a complete madness. To cross the line, and finally wake up.

 

  
I walked along the road, trying to remember any landmarks. Something that could guide me, to pull me out of obscurity. All my life I was following them, repelling from their words and solutions. Walked on paved paths, because it is much easier. You're not getting out of your comfort zone, becoming less of a reason to worry. You are so used to this, the changes seem like a kind of death. If you deviate from the road, you'll fall under the train of someone's life, that is rushing faster than yours. It's so alien to you, you're not even able to get out from under it. You can either stay on the train and go wherever it will bring you, or to die under its wheels.

 

  
Everything was dark, but the city wasn't dead. On the top floors of high-rise buildings a light was burning, through the shop windows in stores were seen tired faces of the sellers: they were taking off their aprons and hats, preparing to go home.

 

Next to me braked a cab, leaving dark streaks from the tires on the pavement.

  
"Boy, you want a ride?" The driver, a man with a gray mustache and a cap covering the same grey hair, tied in a ponytail at the nape, leaned out the window of a yellow taxi. He smelled of tobacco.

  
"I don't know where I suppose to go." I honestly admitted. My voice was unusually slow and viscous as tar, coming from the depths of my chest.

  
"Oh, I see how it is." He slyly grinned, combing his mustache with his fingers. "Well, you still jump in. We'll get you somewhere eventually."

I wasn't arguing, getting into the back seat, wanting to have some space between him and me.

  
He immediately started the engine, his radio was flashing with colorful lights, spreading some kind of strange melody throughout the cabin of the old "beetle". I nervously ran a hand over shabby leather seat.

  
"Where is your house?" He turned the rearview mirror so he could see me. I continuously stared out the window watching houses flying by.

"I don't know."

  
"You don't know? Boy, I hope you didn't escape from a mental asylum or something like that?"

 

I shook my head, "No. It's not my house and I don't know the address. It is located somewhere near the coast." He frowned so much that thick eyebrows veiled his eyes. "Are you a newcomer? I hope you're not an addict?"

He smoothly turned to the left, appearing on the same-looking street as before.

 

"No."

 

"Not too talkative? What are you doing here? Usually young people don't strive to live here. It's a quiet place."

"I don't live here. I came to the father."

"Who's your father?"

"He was a fisherman." For the first time I looked at him through the dead reflection in the glass. His face changed, and his eyes found salvation in the road, as he looked away. "Was?"

"He's dead. Or not. I don't know, to be honest. I was in the hospital for God knows how long. But..."

 

 

  
"Boy, you don't have to tell me if this is a sore subject."

 

He tore one hand from the steering wheel, as if to convince me. I know that I didn't have to say it. I could just keep quiet, because he doesn't care. But I wanted to remove the burden of uncertainty off my shoulders, to be out of the swamp. "It's not that at all."

  
The next ten minutes we spend in silence. I almost forgot that there is someone else in the car.

"You know,-what's your name?"

 

"Zayn."

  
"You know, Zayn, I lost my father too. Only when I was a small-time punk. He worked in a factory, and his hand was cut off by a machine."

  
"I'm sorry", I said, but it turned out coldly. However, the old man didn't seem to care, he continued, "Mom never even told me about it. I came home from school and she was crying. I've never seen him since, and they didn't take me to the funeral."

  
He parked near the entrance to the beach, right before the long row of the houses. "We're here. Hope you find your home, Zayn." He patted my knee, which seemed so skinny compared to his broad palm and thick, strong fingers.

  
"Thank you, sir." I reached into my pocket, trying to find some money, but have only dealt with garbage and a pack of cigarettes.

"It's not necessary. I did so out of friendship, if you can say so. My working time is over." I looked at him and nodded, unable to squeeze out even a pitiful semblance of a smile, though I was thankful. My lips seemed glued together.

  
"Thank you." I mumbled and got out of the car. My feet immediately dipped into something loose, it was sand. In the darkness its grains seemed to be small bugs, devouring my shoes.

Blinking headlights, he turned the car around and left. I was seeing him off, until two bright lights disappeared around the bend.

  
My gaze turned to the horizon; a dark and bottomless. It looked like in this abyss of hopelessness the sun will never rise. Its hot rays were forever buried in the dark waters that have no end.

  
With my hands in my pockets, I walked to the only friend house I knew.

 

This time the front door was locked, I had to knock. It opened, in the doorway was my sister. She smiled weakly, my appearance didn't cause her tide of an expected joy.

  
"Where's mom?" I asked from the doorway.

  
"She lay down to sleep, she's not feeling well... Zayn, where have you been?"

  
"In the hospital."

  
"It closed two hours ago." She crossed her arms, leaning back against the wall with tasteless beige striped wallpaper. Near her head was a painting I hadn't noticed before. A strange looking woman was looking from the canvas directly at me. Her red hair seemed a bright flame. What if this house will fire up?..

  
"Couldn't find the way home." One by one I took off the shoes, silently walking into the kitchen. "

  
"I'm sorry, I should have told you the address...I thought you'll call." She followed me, holding herself with both hands. It seems that her pink sweater was no longer warming.

  
"It doesn't matter. What about mother?"

  
"She's not feeling well."

  
"What happened?" Mechanically I reached to the top cupboard, wanting to find an old stash of cigarettes. But it was at home, not here.

  
She was silent. Her silence was so long that it seemed to have permeated these walls. I couldn't hear anything. Maybe I was deaf, even the door of the cupboard didn't creak. It was lubricated damn well.

  
"Well, don't answer that." I purposely loudly slammed the door. Reaching into my pocket, I didn' feel there a phone.

 

  
"Your phone in the bedroom. You didn't take it..."

 

  
There was mom, however, it didn't prevent me from taking my phone. As luck would have it, the door creaked annoyingly loud, when I tried to walk in.

Trisha wasn't sleeping, on her gray face gleamed colored lights of the TV, they ran on the wall behind her, was heard the laugh-over.

  
"Doniya didn't tell you that I'm sleeping, Zayn?" She asked tiredly, clutching a grey device with buttons.

  
"I just need a phone. And you don't strike me as a sleeping one." I went to the window, impatiently tugging the curtain. The phone was there. Surprisingly, she didn't have time to get to it, I thought, grabbing a cold piece of iron and plastic.

  
"Well, why do you need a phone so soon?"

  
"I need to make a call." As soon as possible I tried to leave the room, "Zayn?"

I stopped in the doorway.

  
"Come here," I walked over to her and sat on the edge of the bed, the mattress caved beneath me. Mom passed a warm hand on my forehead, removing fallen hair. "Do you ever eat?" She asked quietly, as if a moment ago she didn't want me to disappear forever.

  
"Yes, I do." I replied, just as quietly. My irritation had a tendency to disappear as fast as it appears. A second ago I hated her, but now her warm fingers seemed so close and familiar. Such native.

  
_What if Louis hates me too? When his mood changes? I never understood that, I never understood him. Still don't understand._

  
"I worry about you, you're so thin, Zayn. I beg you, don't be mad. You know I can be irritable."

  
"Mom, I need to call, sorry." I got up and left the room without waiting for a response. I locked myself in the bathroom, dialing the number on the broken screen of my smartphone. It had cracked a long ago, the glass was covered with a fine mesh of strips that resembled a spider's web.

 

  
**Beep. Beep. Beep.**

 

  
And nothing happens. It seems an eternity. Huge, endless silence and hopelessness. What is the phone? Nothing. Just a piece of iron. It doesn't give you an exact guarantee of contacting with someone when it needed. At the most inopportune moment, you are somehow still in danger, alone with the long honks, biting into every gyrus of your brain.

 

I couldn't stand and dropped the call.

 

 

_Louis... Why don't you answer me?.._

 

  
*

 

  
_**LOUIS** _

 

 

Noise. A lot of noise. Music. Voices. Everything floats, like a spilled can of gouache.

 

  
Trying to wade through a bunch of sweaty bodies, I go to the exit. The basses press on my brain, they repulse with painful knocks in my temples, the blood gallops through my veins, like someone is shaking the pump too fast. Think I'm falling. Legs, I can't feel them. I feel like I'm losing a sense of reality, the ground leaves from under my feet.

  
Someone grabs me, pulls. Pulling with all his strength. A second later I feel a jolt of oxygen into the nose. The air is so cold, it makes the flow of shivers run across my skin. From the sudden blow of the wind the hood falls off my head, now the wind plays with my hair. I see the neon in the puddles.

 

  
"Dude, you've had too much... are you okay? Hey, look at me." The guy shook me, grabbed my face in his cold fingers. His voice echoes in my head, it hurts. I can swear that I know him.

"I... All Right. All is well," I make an awkward step backwards, trying to keep my balance.

  
"Look at me, don't move..." He again lifted my face, looking me in the eyes. He smelled of alcohol. Blue ruffled hair shone in the moonlight.

  
"It's okay." I repeat, my voice no longer shaking.

  
"Doesn't look like it to me. Louis, that's not right. You need to stop doing this, you'll end up dead."

"I don't want to remember. I don't want to remember anything..." I want to jerk and leave, but my legs won't move any further. I remain motionless, he lets me go.

"Lou,"

"Yes? What do you want? Frank, let's go back inside?" I plead.

  
I shake my head, trying to regain a sense of drunken unawareness.

  
"No, we're not going inside. I know a better place." He takes my hand and leads me to the dark silhouette of his car. Inside it smells like coffee mixed with cheap tobacco, on the mirror dangles a tiny spruce, it is similar to a uvula in a huge black mouth.

Frank starts the car, the engine begins to puff and crack. Dark truck drives away from the club, I can't hear the music anymore.

_I'm scared. I don't like the dark. I hate the silence._

As if reading my mind, Frank turns on the radio. Plays some pop music, but it feels easier for me, I'm not looking for the meaning of the words.

  
"Where's your phone?" Frank asks, not looking away from the road.

  
"I don't know." I shrug my shoulders.

  
"You know, you really need to carry it with you. What if Zayn's worried about you. I am more than sure he is." His words make me feel cold, I bury myself deeper into the hoodie.

  
"He's not worried. He doesn't care." I say indifferently, my voice cracks.

  
"It is not true. What makes you think that?"

"I just know it, okay? Close the window, I'm cold." I said it unexpectedly loud, I almost cry like after taking an energy-drink.

"Okay."

  
Once again we are silent. It takes a long time until the car finally slows down. I feel tired and unwillingness to get up, but Frank gets up and leaves, I have to follow him.

  
This place is familiar to me. We are on the field, my legs are drowning in a high dried grass, touching the cold dirt. Smells of damp and ash, people often come here to make bonfires.

  
Above me the sky. So huge, it's easy to get lost in it, you just have to throw back your head. Ahead of us is home. Two-storey, the lights are always on. Owners never sleep, mainly because it's a variety of people. They come and leave.

  
The house is almost never empty, but now seems like no one was there. I can't hear loud laughter, or the melody of the guitar, only frogs croak in the grass.

We go inside, rotten wooden planks quietly moan under the soles of our boots.

  
On the floor there is a candle, she lights up the room in a dim orange light. A breath of wind and the door slams shut somewhere upstairs, a bird flies away from the window sill and disappear into the night, loudly flapping wings, her feathers gently fall to the floor next to the candle.

We have been here many times. I can't remember what was happening before I moved to London. I almost could burn this time from my memory.

Frank sat by the through-hole in the wall, before it was the window. Around are still littered with small pieces of glass. They sparkle like tiny snowflakes.

I sat beside him, stretching my tired feet. On the shoulders fell the sudden fatigue. Such Intrusive, intolerant of objections.

  
"Why did we come here?" I asked him, trying not to disturb the silence. My voice was carried away by the wind from the house out the window, it raced across the field, disappearing in the air.

  
"You always liked this place."

  
"Yes, I did."

  
One question stired me. I didn't dare to ask it, as if someone's hands gripped my throat, not allowing the words to escape.

  
"Frank?"

 

"M?"

"What are you going to do tomorrow?" The first time I looked at him. In the candlelight his face was yellow and the freckles seemed more expressive. In one of his nostrils shone a metallic ring. He sighed, smiled, mesmerized by the small flame.

"I don't know. Will go to University. Funny, my parents think that something great can come out of me."

  
"You're smart."

  
"You're smart, Louis. Only sometimes do stupid things. Why did you decide to ask about it?"

  
"I don't know. Another folly. "I shrugged, not knowing how to continue. I don't talk a lot, but now I craved it. I couldn't keep it inside, but was afraid to let it go. At any moment it could blow up.

  
"And what are you gonna do?" He asked. I shook my head, "I don't know. I never know. Maybe tomorrow I will die. And I don't even know about it." I felt shame, my throat clenched in a tight knot.

  
"Come on, dude. You won't die. As far as I know, you were always good at getting yourself out of trouble."

  
"The Titanic was also considered unsinkable."

  
Frank was silent. I felt his gaze on my face, heavy like a weight. Finally he let out a loud sigh, the flame of the candle wavered from his breath, as if from fright.

"Yeah, you're right. But you know what? You're smart. That's why you won't die. Whatever happens, I'm sure you can figure out what to do."

 

"yeah..."

 

*

 

 

 


	8. Chapter 8

Chapter 8.

 

**_HARRY_ **

 

Autumn always arrives suddenly. You're never waiting for it, and, like a brick on the head, it falls down on you. In the morning you wake up, and outside there's no more welcoming green foliage and the summer sun no longer kisses you on the cheek with warm lips.

  
This morning I had to dig a coat out of a suitcase. And all because yesterday was a downpour, the drops were drumming on the glass all night, preventing me from sleeping.

 

*

 

"Harry, you're dozing off. Is everything okay?" Galen patted me on the shoulder. Today he was wearing a blue sweater with an embroidered sunflower, which smelled of old age in the best sense.

  
"I slept badly. Still not used to the new bed."

  
"You know, I could give you my pills. They're with an extract of Valerian. Always helps me, you know."

  
"Yeah, great idea."

  
Students continued to arrive in the audience. Their voices became something ordinary, like the buzzing of a fly, which cease to notice sooner or later.

  
I took a pencil in my hand, examining the small red line on my finger. Yesterday I cut myself with paper. A few scarlet drops even fell on the sheet with my homework.

  
_Hope the professor won't be too mad._

  
Mr. Blank entered the class, bringing silence like an invisible cloak, which he never took off. He greeted us in a monotone voice, putting down a pile of books that looked too heavy. He adjusted a tight knotted dark green tie and sat down at the table. Almost all of the hair was gone, only a few areas of gray covered his skull just above the ears. In a bald head reflected painfully white lights.

  
The old man was slow, never in a hurry and didn't like the noise. In his classes everyone were always quiet as on the graveyard.

  
The lecture started slowly and elapsed in the most primitive manner. When the bell rang, I packed my things and first came out of the audience. The corridor was filled with different smells of fresh pastries, cigarettes, and Cologne. All this mixed in some mind-numbing anaesthesia.

  
I hurried out into the street. Sobering cold wind instantly filled my lungs, giving vigor. Quietly rustling underfoot, the leaves were rolling in an unknown direction.

  
Ahead of me on the sidewalk fled children. They loudly argued and laughed, inciting each other to step their clean school shoes into a tempting muddy puddle. The wind increased, driving a gray cotton clouds across the sky, children hurried up too, as if hearing mothers call them home.

  
Everything presaged rain.

  
I heard hasty steps behind me.

  
"Harry, you're walking too fast..." Galen was out of breath.

  
"Sorry, I had to wait for you."

  
"Well, you know, you don't have to. If I'm intruding, just say the word." He said easily. However, I felt a twinge of sadness in his voice. He was hoping that I wouldn't do it. I weakly grinned, "No, Galen. Everything is fine."

 

"Tell me what happened?"

  
"What are you talking about? Nothing happened."

  
"Yeah, right..." He awkwardly shoved his hands in his pockets, looking on the high red trees that seemed to be chasing us. I took him by the hand, wanting to comfort.

  
"Don't pout. It's fine, really. I just thought... I think Louis has some problems." I never voiced this thought and now was afraid to regret it.  _Well, what help Galen could offer?_

  
"Seriously?"

  
"Yes."

  
"What makes you think that?"

  
"You know, maybe I shouldn't talk about it."

  
"Tell me, and you'll feel better."

  
"Well..." I sighed, "He's so skinny, and pale, and....cold. On his hands are bruises. I almost never saw him in the light, who knows what else might be there? Honestly, I don't know what to do. It's like... I have to help. I should, but how?.."

  
"Have you tried to ask him?"

"No. He won't say anything, I know."

 

"Why?" Galen showed almost childish confusion.

  
"Because he's Louis. When his mother died, I heard that not from him but from his father. He keeps everything to himself, until it eats him out completely."

  
Galen pursed his lips, as if pondering the answer.

 

  
"I am a bad advisor here, but I think you should look at it closer. Maybe there's no problem? All you do is worry, allowing his problem to bother YOU. Though, probably, it always happens if the person you care about is in trouble." He sighed softly, deftly stepping over a puddle, "You know, when I was a kid, I loved to eavesdrop. Not in a bad way, I just was very curious."

His words made me smile weakly. He adjusted cine round glasses with thin, pale from the cold finger, "I've come up with all sorts of nonsense, based on what I heard or saw accidentally. Very often it didn't make sense: just snatches of conversations. And then I felt ashamed of the rumors I made about other kids, but it was... Kinda fun. Adults always scolded me for it. And for drawing on the walls." He smiled ironically, "Don't worry." The last phrase was addressed to me.

 

I sighed, "Yeah, you're right,"

 

Something fell on my nose: small and cold.

 

Asphalt began covering up with tiny, dark dots, like chicken pox.

 

The sky rumbled.

  
*

**_ZAYN_ **

  
The early morning there was a call from the hospital. It was so clear, as the alarm signifying trouble. Good news never come in the morning, I already knew.

  
The nurse told us that dad died.

  
What is death? It is a grief. It's the pain, the tears of loved ones. It is an irreparable loss, which, it seems, will never touch you. And if that happens, you just have to be killed with impenetrable, as the sky during a storm, grief.

  
No one prepares us for this, in school they don't tell us what to do and how to react. Just listen to yourself.

  
Now you need to arrange the funeral, notify all the relatives, we know it all. Nobody will avoid such paperwork. But what about feelings? What should I feel?

  
_I didn't feel anything_. It scared me, I felt guilty when sister, together with my mother rushed to collect things, with this wiping away flowing tears. Looking at them it was clear: panic. These women have lost a loved one and are grieving now. As it should be.

  
I was hiding my face. While we were riding in a taxi, I stared down at the floor. I've never studied my shoes so carefully.

  
In the hospital I complained of feeling unwell and closed myself in the toilet. It was white, clean, as if there had never been deaths. Nothing of that sort. Cleaners struggled, trying to scrub this place to shine. Purity inspire confidence, but not heat. It was too cold.

  
The walls had been soaked with other people's grief. Lump was raising in my throat, I threw up, cold sweat beaded on my forehead.

  
I slowly walked to the window, dissolving it open. A wind from the sea picked up the shutters, making them dance in the air.

 

I took out a phone, looking at the time first in the last three days.

  
_Only eleven o'clock in the morning._

  
Fishing out of a jacket pocket a crumpled cigarette, I lit it up, leaning on the windowsill.

  
Anxiety and fear, like the smoke from the cigarette flew up, but was hampered under the ceiling, not leaving the room.

  
Ten minutes passed before someone knocked, quietly and modestly. I threw a cigarette out the window, quietly shut it and hastily left the scene, running into my sister in the hallway.

  
She gave me a look full of sorrow. She blamed me for everything.

  
"Zayn, our father -"

 

"Died." I confirmed quietly, letting the words disappear in the hospital corridor, permeating every ventilation. I pressed her to myself, she squeezed my jacket between her fingers, burrowing into my chest.

 

  
*

  
_"Zayn," Rough father's voice broke into my head, mixing with images in a dream. Then came the touch, his heavy hand shook my shoulder. With a fright in my eyes, I tried to see a familiar face in a huge black silhouette. Father quietly chuckled, turning on the bedside lamp. Now his large, stubbly face was illuminated by a dim light of the bulb. I rubbed my eyes._

_"Dad? What are you doing here?" He just smiled at me, ruffling my dark hair._

_"Will you go fishing with me, huh, kid?" He asked with warmth in his voice. I quickly lightened up, throwing off my feet a heavy blanket. Dad laughed, "Just be quiet, okay? And another thing: Mom should know nothing. Okay, Zayn?"_

_I nodded multiple times, hurriedly putting on my jeans._

_Father waited until I got dressed, then we went down to the first floor.The house was quiet, the sounds of our footsteps absorbed in the soft carpet like droplets of water. Only the kitchen clock was ticking._

_He quietly picked up the rods from the niche, but even old doors decided not to give away us, the rusty hinges remained silent._

  
_Trying not to make any noise, we left the house and got into dad's old jeep. He started growling motor, the car formidably trembled beneath me._

  
_I clung to the old seat, and stared around. Dawn only began to slightly break, it was about six o'clock in the morning. The father turned on the radio, from the speakers played soft melody of the guitar. I leaned back on the seat, and fell asleep again._

  
_His voice again woke me up in a few hours. We got out of the car, I heard chirping insects in the grass, and quiet sounds of the surf. The air smelled of wormwood and goose-foot._

_Father took out fishing supplies, loaded a bag of sausage sandwiches prepared in advance. I helped him: he has instructed me to carry fragile fishing rods._

_We sat in a large inflatable boat and floated on the water. Kiamichi tickled our boards before we sailed far enough._

_The father handed me a fishing rod, showing how to wind the line. With the utmost caution, I repeated his actions, throwing the hook into the dark waters._

_The sky was slowly painting in yellow and red, the air became warmer._

_"That's right, hold it tightly." Father took the rod in my hands. It was heavy, but I didn't show it off._

_Almost all of the time, he wasn't saying a word: nodded, listened, and smiled as if seeing me for the last time, giving me anxiety. But when father spoke, I wished that the silence never ended._

_His words were like white noise: they replaced all other sounds. The sound of water and birds crying in the forest, it all disappeared. I didn't realize all their importance, and what they can bring, that's why it scared me._

_"Zayn, you know why I brought you here?" He asked carefully._

_I shrugged, negatively shaking my head. I tried to look at the float, but at the same time to heed the words of the father._

_"This is our first and last fishing. I just wanted to show you how to do it. After all, I promised..." He sighed._

_I quietly waited for him to speak again, the childish curiosity pervaded my whole body._

_"Soon I won't live with you anymore, that's what I'm trying to say. Now you may not understand this, but your mother and I are no longer want to live together. We don't love each other anymore." He sought understanding in my eyes, and I was looking for an explanation in his._

_Why are they no longer love each other? why?..._

_I didn't want to disappoint him, so I hesitantly nodded._

_"Don't worry, someday you'll understand." He gently smoothed my hair, "Look, you got one!"_

_The rod jerked in my hands._

  
*

  
I saw my dad again one last time before cremation. He wasn't like himself. It was not him, but a dead man, whom I seemed not know. His pale face was doll-like, as if there was not a drop of blood. Grey cheeks were sunken, and beard seemed as white as fresh-fallen snow.

  
Then his body was placed in a huge oven. I saw the red flowers of the flame wrapped the box in which he lay, like a log.

  
Strangely, on this day we were the only ones in the entire crematorium. Dressed in all black, we went out in the sun. It was shining so brightly, rejecting any thoughts of death, giving life.

  
Mom gripped the fabric of my jacket, her fingers like a vise, unwilling to let go.

  
Blown by a warm wind, which usually dominated on the hills, me and my mother came to the very slope. From below we watched the city full of people and different noises.

 

"Are you going to leave so soon?" Mother asked quietly, making sure that Doniya can't hear us from the car.

 

"Yes, I need to go home."

 

"Why so soon? We haven't yet decided the issue of your father's house." She lowered her tone. I looked at her furtively, "What about the house? I thought, it's yours now?" She sighed frustrated.

  
"I'd like that... But no. I didn't tell you sooner. Now this house is yours. The father bequeathed it to you."

  
"When were you planning to tell me?" I frowned.

  
"Now. That's what I just did. Zayn, I don't want any more fights with you. You're my son, but once it's all over, we split up again as ships at the sea. But this house is yours. I decided to do the honest thing and tell you about it."

  
"How generous of you." I shook my head, staring at the whimsical cloud shapes in the blue sky. She let go of my sleeve, leaving in direction of the car, her heels clicking on the pavement, like little hammers.

 

  
She's pregnant. On the second month, but despite this, she lit a cigarette, getting in the salon next to my sister.

 

*

  
Before sunset, I was at the station. Past me were running people along the platform, gripping their bags. Mechanical smell of trains was passing through everywhere, the wheel was grinding on rails. Lazy evening light warmed my face, reflected in the glasses of the old lady standing next to me. Her elegant, old-fashioned hat was periodically disrupted by the wind, and in the end she just took it off.

  
I was clutching my ticket that became damp from my sweaty palm. The thought of seeing Louis excited my heart. Whatever he was, I missed him, as people who are immersed in the water miss air.

  
Train growled somewhere in the distance, people were on their guard. Someone in a panic was looking for tickets, the naughty children ran away from their parents right up to the edge of the platform, and someone was silent, meeting the train with full of hope eyes.

  
I tightened still more on the ticket, to avoid it being carried away by the wind. Huge mechanical snake raced past us, gradually slowing. Smelled something burning, in the air formed a gray cloud of smoke.

 

*

  
I have always loved trains, despite the fact that in such crowded places particularly acute sense of your loneliness.

  
Inhaling the scent of fresh sandwiches, cheap alcohol and poor qualified cigarettes, I watched the passing hills and trees. They flashed like slides in the old movies, one after another.

  
Across from my seat was a woman, around her were pestering little kids: two boys and a girl. Babbling incomprehensible baby buzzwords, they pulled each other and their own mother. She was calm and serene as a tree, allowing them to crawl and climb on her, as if her hands and legs were branches.

  
Occasionally adjusting clumsy bun on her head, she continued to read the magazine, clutching glossy paper with thin fingers.

  
"Archibald, you stop it!" She howled when one of the boys clung to her dress.

  
_Well, if my name was 'Archibald', I would simply never put up with that,_ I thought, carefully hiding the crawling over smile with my hand.

 

My heart was quiet, in the muddy window glass reflected yellow light from the ceiling lamps. Reaching for the backpack, I pulled out the warm thermos with hot coffee inside. One click, and it seems that the whole train was filled with the aroma of Arabica.

 

  
The moon was rising above the horizon when Archibald finally fell asleep, tightly holding his mom's hem of skirt.

  
*

 

  
"You know, I, certainly understand everything, but your tea is just heavenly expensive! And it's full of preservatives! What do you put in there?" My eyes slowly opened, hearing the loud voice of the same woman and conductor.

 

  
"MA'am, I don't have a clue. I just sell what they deliver to us." The girl sighed, tapping her knee on a metal foot of the trolley.

  
Noticing me, her face relaxed a little, "Sorry we woke you up, sir. I think, next stop is yours." She gently nodded towards the window.

 

 

And the truth: behind the glass flashed the lights of London. I slipped one strap of the backpack on my shoulder and waited for the stop.

  
When the steel grated on steel, and in the vagon once again smelled smoke, my heart was racing like a jet. I don't know what I was afraid of, but the anxiety never left me, no matter how I tried to think about something else. Ducking past pottering about passengers, I was the first to reach the exit. Like a prisoner from jail, I got out, into the air.

 

  
Suddenly, I almost ran, periodically touching oncoming people. They were shouting something at me, but I didn't turn, the winds drove me home like a dog chases a hare.

  
Any transport seemed too slow and I ran faster. All the way I overcame, ignoring the pain in my side and tortured breathing. My legs were buzzing, but the sight of the familiar house gave me strength. Entering the building I almost hit miss Brackins.

  
"God, Malik! Where are you going!?" She rasped, exactly like her ungreased door, a huge pot with a ficus reeled in her hands.

  
"I'm sorry!" I threw, flying up the stairs. Joy mixed with fear, and when I reached my floor, I left something like uncertainty. Fishing out from my pocket the keys, I inserted them into the hole.

  
Our door always creaked, but this time it made my heart fall somewhere in my feet and stay there. Unusual darkness enveloped me in a cold blanket, I hesitantly stepped inside. Chills ran down my spine.

 

_The window must be opened..._

 

  
My attention was drawn to the yellow stripe on the floor: bathroom was oozing light. Without hesitation, I pulled the handle: it was locked.

  
I leaned against the rough cold door, listening. Everything was quiet, only a sickening smell of lavender wanted to escape outside.

  
"Louis?" I asked so quietly, afraid of my own voice. "Open the door. It's not the time... For jokes."

 

I waited, listening for movements inside. Silence.

 

"Okay, I'll open the door." Inevitably my voice trembled, I quickly ran to the kitchen and took from a drawer a small shiny key.

  
_**Click.** _ The catch yielded.

 

Heat flashed into my face when I entered, inside it was hot, the mirror misted.

  
Something was wrong.

  
Soft mat has absorbed a huge stain of blood. Crimson drops continued to fall, disappearing in the dark blue fibers. My legs grew heavy, I found it hard to breathe, only now I felt the unbearable fatigue that has been building up like a snowball. Snatching a hand over the door frame, I grabbed my head. Under fingers felt the cold trickle of sweat. I couldn't look at him.

  
"Louis.... Oh my God..." with a trembling hand I took out the phone, dialing the ambulance. On the other end answered almost instantly.

  
"Yes?" The voice of the guy at the desk was tired, ill. I'd give anything to be in his place. To be anywhere, just not here and not now.

  
"Come here... I have a man dying. He slitted his wrists..." I said as calmly as I could.

  
Somewhere outside the accident happened. Crashed two cars. I felt their tires rubbing on the asphalt. I heard the swearing between the two mad drivers so pure, as if I was standing next to them.

 

  
"Your address?"

  
"Street...." A heavy wave of blood hit my brain. I slowly sank to the floor, greedily gasping the stale air.

 

 

"hello? Sir?..Hello-"

 

 

***

 


	9. Chapter 9

Chapter 9.

 

 

**_HARRY_ **

 

 

It was cold when I was walking home. Uncomplicated, no signs of trouble, the thought came to mind of Galen, and I just followed the flippant impulse of the soul. Guy with glasses has offered a bit of fun, drink, because today is Friday. We held the bar for about three hours, but then I left due to headache. And it wasn't a complete lie: my head was throbbing.

 

The street seemed eerily deserted, terrible wind, like a grouchy grandpa, drove the first dry leaves. I pulled the plentiful knitted scarf higher, ignoring the growing fear in my stomach. It aggressively pulled on my ends, causing either pain, or euphoria.

 

I almost got used to the familiar anxiety when I saw my house. It stood still motionless, in the darkness of night. Fresh flowers tenaciously clung to the carved banister of the porch, a sure sign of the holiday. But what?

The door yielded worse than usual:I have almost lacked the strength to open it. In the hallway a confined light was flashing erratically.

On the upper floors, reflecting in a multi-level echo, I heard the noises, like a clink of keys.

 

I slowly began to climb the stairs, heaviness in my legs and muscles gradually grew. My ears were catching every brisk sound coming to me from under the doors of apartments.

  
With each floor a feeling of inexplicable joy filled my chest, only increasing under the influence of alcohol. Somewhere deep inside I was hoping to see Zayn struggling with the door lock, tired, as he usually was.

I haven't seen it in the past two days, it planted in me the seed of doubt. What if he moved? I was almost used to a strange neighbor like him, it would be almost a loss.

  
Perhaps the fate of the guy next door has bothered me more than I wanted. Some part of me harbored a fear, and quietly quivered at the thought of him, but at the same time I wanted to understand him.

Or catch him on something.

 

When I reached the top floor, on my eyes appeared rounded, skinny back of the old woman Brackins, she was holding a bunch of keys. Hearing steps, she sharply turned around.

 

"Styles. Good evening. Where have you been, if not a secret? Have you looked at the time?" She muttered, examining copper and metal keys in sinewy hands.

"No... Sorry if I'm interrupting anything."

 

"No, not interrupting. To your Inbox came water bills, when are you going to pay for them?" I involuntarily yawned, opening my own lock.

 

"Tomorrow, maybe. Good night, Miss Brackins."

 

"And you don't fall ill tonight, Mr. Styles."

It was a case of a few seconds before I got inside. My own apartment smelled different for some reason, the air seemed stifled. "Probably I should open the window..." I wearily leaned down to my shoes, trying to unlace them.

 

I wanted to lock the door behind me, when my eardrums reverberated with a terrible, piercing shriek. I ran to the staircase, instinctively rushing into Zayn's apartment.

 

Before the bathroom door, stood petrified old woman in a cotton nightgown. Her gray hair heaved up, she was holding onto her heart. Panic swept over me.

 

"What? What is it?" I hesitantly neared to her. She weakly pointed to the room. What I saw put me in absolute dread: Zayn was on the floor, unconscious, in his hands he held the phone, from which flowed the short frequent beeps.

 

Under his feet was a pool of merlot blood, which had saturated the dark blue rug. From the bath was hanging the hand of the guy who at first didn't attract my attention: his face was covered in a shaggy brown hair.

 

"A lot of things I've seen, but we've never had suicidals, God forgive me..." She crossed herself, holding onto the door jamb. I flinged around in search of a phone.

  
I found it on the kitchen table. Against my cheek, it felt ice-cold.

 

"Hello?"

"Yeah, em, hello, come, we have two people unconscious...."

 

 

"We're on our way."

 

  
*

 

  
_I was running through town. Nothing was in sight, only ghostly silhouettes, veiled in a milky fog. Gray houses revealed distant, as if from fear of me, they backed away. Air was getting cold, from my mouth felled blanching steam._

_Somewhere far away, clanked something like a bicycle bell. It made chills run over the back of my head, the tips of my fingers tartly nipped._

_I had gone to the sound, dispersing the mist with my hands. It was thick as cotton curtains. Mysterious sound led me to the old house. The front door was ajar, the wind rocked it so hard that it hit the wall, losing the last remnants of white paint._

_In front of the narrow porch was a bicycle. As if seeing me, it went mute. Obeying the invisible forces, I quietly climbed inside, stepping on the creaky stairs. They seemed to be crying, so dreadfully forsaken their creaking was._

_Inside smelled damp and sickly rotten._

_My throat was dry, I sneaked into the kitchen in search of water._

_It was a narrow room full of tables, floor and wall. The doors were opened, as if someone had cleaned this place long before me. On the table in the middle of the room stood a bowl of fruits. They gave off a terribly bitter smell that attracted the whole dark clouds of flies. Their buzzing could be heard all over the room, on the floor, right next to my leg, galloped a huge dark cockroach. It resembled a large raisin._

_Disgust made me wince, I closed my nose with a sleeve, although noxious smell leaked already hopelessly deep. Suddenly, behind me creaked the old floorboards. I turned to see... Louis. He was much younger, like when I first saw him. He was sixteen and his face still didn't cover barbed bristles, only an uncertain grimace. He scared me._

_"Louis?.." I held out my hand to him. He looked at me panicky and rushed outside, behind him was led a trail of the rare scarlet droplets. A lump rose in my throat and I started to follow after him. When I ran onto the street, he has already eluded in the alley._

_"Louis!... Louis!!!?" I shouted as loud as I could. My own scream reverberated millions of other ones around the city._

_My own voice made every cell in my brain hurt._

_I fell, kneeling on the hard asphalt._

_My nose still smelled the rotten fruit._

***

  
**_ZAYN_ **

I woke up to a lucent blinding light and the smell of ammonia in my face. Wanting to get rid of the terrible smell, I reflexively hit the object that emits it. It was someone's warm hand.

 

Feeling dizzy, I opened my eyes, wincing from a sharp headache. Before me was a face that at first I didn't recognize. Later, the realization hit me: Harry.

 

I shook my head, wanting to ward off unpleasant remains of sleep, they were still too fresh in my mind.

 

"Well, at least you woke up..." He said quietly, crushing in his hand a piece of fleece. Boom. Push, I jumped up on the spot, the heart paused for a moment. "We hit a bump." He stated. We were in the ambulance car.

 

"Zayn, how do you know Louis?.." He didn't give me time to myself. His own voice sounded tired.

 

I frowned, hoping that it seemed to me, and this issue wasn't hanging in the air at all.

 

"I... He's my.... Brother. Step-brother. I left, and when I returned, he was so... Like this." The words flowed from me like a waterfall, I felt the need for conversation right now.

 

I talked and he just listened and occasionally nodded. My attention not immediately fell on the doctor and Louis lying on the stretcher.

 

From his veins protruded transactions drips, and the face looked wholly chalky.

 

"I don't know how it happened..." Was the last thing I squeezed out of myself. "I wasn't there..."

 

Then realized with horror: _I wasn't there. He needed me, but I wasn't there! Why do I never see what I have in front of me?!..._

"The doctor said that he can still be saved... But he lost a lot of blood." Harry interrupted my thoughts. I looked straight at him, searching for the true reason of his words. He wanted to alleviate my guilt? Even an idiot could see, who's here to blame.

 

I turned around and looked at the floor. I wore the same shoes from my father's funeral.

 

***

 

Hospital room smelled of cheap perfume. Louis' doctor was a woman. Not much she could do, he was immediately put in emergency resuscitation. As suddenly as the snow fell in October, next to me was Harry. I almost didn't notice him. My loneliness there was almost no broken.

It's been three hours or so when he rose for the third time and went to the vending machine. He has already drunk two bottles of black tea. When he came back he talked to me, probably for the first time.

 

"Did you know about this?" He wondered quietly.

 

I guessed. Something wasn't as it should be. Wrong. But I refused to see it.

 

"No. He didn't tell me a thing." I croaked. Recently, I was a complete wuss. I was already sick from the feeling of powerlessness and some absolute detachment.

"I don't get it. You live with him. How could you not notice anything? Nothing?"

 

"Are you going to blame me? I didn't give him the blade in his hands." I fretted.

 

He sighed heavily.

 

"I'm not blaming you." He said. I could feel his scowl on me.

 

"I just... I know what you're thinking. I know I could've done more. But I just wasn't there when he needed me."

 

"I think you did what you could. Don't eat yourself because of this, Louis has had some problems."

 

"Wait, how do YOU know this?" My question gave him a feeling of discomfort, he shivered.

"We were close. That's a pretty long story actually.... You know his mother has died, right?" He looked at me. I suddenly felt hot, burning wave coursed through my skin. I shook my head, watching a passing nurse. "I had no idea."

 

"He didn't tell you?"

 

"no."

 

"Well, his mother died in a car accident. He was very upset because of this. Apparently, a little too much..." His knuckles were white and taut nylon of the force with which he squeezed the neck of the bottle.

 

"He barely spoke to me." I admitted bleakly. " Came home and went to bed, or not come at all." Involuntarily, my eyes fell on his bottle.

 

"Want?"

 

My stomach mercilessly consumed itself. I don't remember when I ate last time.

 

"No, I'm fine. Okay."

 

"All right," He unscrewed the yellow plastic cover and took a huge gulp, absorbing from around a quarter of a bottle.

  
***

 

  
Waiting is one of the most horrible feelings. Especially when you don't know what is expected. You just drag out a meaningless existence, waiting until you get a kill.

From lack of power, I slept for almost two days. I don't remember how I got home. Recall mixed dreams, voices, closed curtains, hiding me from the outside world.

  
I felt fatigue, back pain. Any sounds started to annoy me, the silence and solitude of the bedroom seemed all the more captivating.

When someone knocked on the door I thought that I was dreaming. But the knock hasn't disappeared, as much as I tried to Wake up. Throwing a hot blanket to the side, I stood up, slightly unsteadily.

On the coffee table in the living room stood a ashtray with numerous cigarette butts, it was very cold. The icy floor had a compressor effect on my feet.

Journey to door and search for the keys took about ten minutes, an eternity, but the visitor never wanted to leave. Opening the door, I was met with a pair of dull green eyes.

 

"Harry." I said throaty.

"Hi." The conversation wasn't glued from the first words. I looked at the floor.

 

"You don't look well." He said uncomfortably. I was sure that I look just horrible. He saw no reason to hide it.

 

"It's okay." I tried to smile, but it came out pathetic. Only head started to hurt again.

 

"Gonna let me in?" He tipped his head, looking over my shoulder. I retreated.

"Yeah, sorry. Come on in." As I shut the door, I had found himself at the entrance to the balcony. His back sank silently, as if something has upset him.

"Why did you stop watering the flowers? If you want, I'll do it." His proposal caught me by surprise. I completely forgot about flowers.

"No, I... I can do that." I stood still, awkwardly observing him like a strange animal. He silently mourned the flowers. They really looked dead. Dry. Some of them seem to have been sick.

Exhaling a heavy sigh, he noiselessly approached me. His hand reached out, but I recoiled from it like a frightened kitten.

"Let me touch your forehead." He reasoned calmly. I straightened out. His hand was pleasantly cool, like a fresh bad sheet. "You have a fever. Zayn, what are you thinking?" He chided. I shrugged my shoulders. A stupid gesture.

"I didn't know I was sick." I said in excuse. He only frowned. "You have medicine?"

"No,"

"I'll buy them." He rushed to the door, I made a weak effort to stop him. "It's not necessary. Let me give you money." I ran my eyes over the room in search of my jeans with a wallet.

 

"I'll buy." And he disappeared behind the door. I could only wait.

 

  
***

 

  _ **HARRY**_

I hurriedly ran out of the house, hiding my cold hands into the pockets. The pharmacy was right across the street.

I suffered different thoughts lately. The fate of Louis was stressing me out, but Zayn was his brother, a loved one, and now he wasn't indifferent to me either.

I couldn't live right next door and not hear anything. How loud he coughs at night. Couldn't see withering flowers on the balcony. As he fades himself. The least I could do is buy him medicine.

Understandably, he blamed himself. Anyone would have done the same thing. But it's not his fault, and his injustice to himself and so critical self-blame is simply unimaginable. I feared that he could do something to himself. I listened to his door, and when I didn't hear steps, I felt uneasy, scared.

He no longer went to work.

 

 

Ringing door bells greeted me on the doorstep of the pharmacy. Small, bright and cozy room with lots of delicious pills. So I imagined this place in my childhood, when my mother and I came to it during a snow storm to keep warm.

"Hello. Is there anything I can help you with?" Asked the guy behind the counter. He had a standard smile, expressing, in fact, nothing.

"I need analgesic and cough drops. Or better syrup." *Probably, it hurts to swallow.*

The guy nodded, walked to the stand with tablets, and in a moment returned with two white boxes out of cardboard.

"35."

I handed him the bill.

 

 

  
When I returned, Zayn's door was open. Looks like he wasn't even trying to lock it. Once inside, I heard the flowing water. A momentary fear gripped me, but it quickly disappeared when I saw him, washing his face.

I quietly moseyed to the kitchen. I left medicine on the table, wanting to find the kettle, I came across a pile of dirty dishes in the sink. It stood there for quite some time: pieces of food on the plates were tightly stuck.

 

 

"I could wash the dishes myself." Zayn's voice startled me, I slowed down the water pressure.

 

"Doesn't look like it. You walk around like a ghost. Open the bottle and drink the medication."

 

 

A plastic bag rustled, he took out the box and used the syrup. I handed him a glass of water. "Drink up." Zayn greedily drank the whole glass. "Do you have a thermometer?" He shook his head. Dark thick layer of stubble blanketed his face, his hair seemed to be flattened. Out came another sigh.

"Okay. So, why don't you tell me what else you don't have and I'll go and get it."

"No need, I'm fine." He pig-headed. I again touched his forehead. "You're burning up. Go and lie down, I'll go home for a thermometer."

 

" Why are you bossing me? I said I'm fine, want you to believe." He faltered. " I'm an adult, I can deal with my problems."

  
His exasperated tone gave me courage. "Adult, that even can not cure a cold."

"Harry, I don't understand, why do you care? You lived next to me all this time and you didn't give two shits. What happened?" He could barely stand on his feet. I really didn't want to argue with him, but he seemed to want otherwise .

"What has changed? I'll tell you. I found Louis, bleeding out in your bathtub. And you were with him. On the same floor. Miss Brackins wanted to evict you, you both almost gave her a heart attack."

 

"What do you care about Louis? Why does he upset you?" He referred lowly.

 

"I already told you, we were close."

 

"What does 'close' mean?"

 

" What does it matter? I don't have to explain myself to you." I crossed my arms on my chest.

 

"And you don't owe me a treatment!" He bellowed. His voice crashed like glass, it became silence. He glowered at me, if I was the cause of all his troubles.

 

 

"We weren't close." He said finally.

 

"Zayn, listen-"

"Sorry. Just. Forgive me, okay? I can handle it myself. Thank you for the medicine."

 

Neither saying a word more, he went into the bedroom, slamming the door behind him.

 

***

 

  
I became worse to sleep at night. Cough behind the wall never bothered me, as it completely stopped. Went out like a candle. I tried to sit as much as possible in the library, with my head immersed in the history of photography.

 

Every day in the evening I went to visit Louis. Sat next to him.

 

I couldn't understand. Did not understand what led him to this decision.

 

_Was it really that bad? Why didn't he ask for help? I've heard lots of stories about people who just left, leaving behind them a lot of mysteries. I've never thought that Louis would be one of them._

He has lost a lot of blood. Almost too much to be saved. One morning, I think it was Tuesday, he had a blood transfusion, but the doctors ' prognosis was unfavorable. Along with veins cut, there were many other defects of health.

 

He was taking opiates. The tests showed a high content of drug in the blood.

 

"You knew about drug addiction of Mr. Tomlinson?" Doctor in a white coat loomed over me like a cloud.

"No, I didn't know."

 

"His deep depressive state can be associated with it. I'm not talking about what negative impact drugs have had on his internal organs." She disappointedly shook her head, looking at me over her glasses. "Who are you to him?" She clarified again. Why it seemed to me that she is trying to stab me.

"Friend." I said.

"Is your name Frank?" I gave her a questioning look. "No. Who's Frank?"

"Some guy. He comes here periodically. But, you know, it's not my business, so I'm sorry I can't help you." She laid the pen behind the ear and left the room.

I remained alone with the quiet hiss of the machine that measures a heartbeat. Behind the door was quietly selling the doctors. On the table were brought by me flowers.

"What am I gonna do with you?" I asked the silence. It seemed incredibly stupid to talk with a man who couldn't hear. Suddenly, behind me clicked and the door opened. The corner of my eye I saw a guy. Tall, skinny, with bright blue, dry hair. His face was dotted with freckles, nose glistened a metal ring.

 

Spying me, he seemed to have chickened out, quickly shutting the door. At first I thought that he had the wrong room.

 

In a second I flew into the corridor, looking for the stranger. He, meanwhile, had reached the end of the corridor and vanished around the corner to the stairs.

  
I caught up with him near the front receptionist. Sharp jerk, I grabbed his jacket, pressing his whole body against the wall. He deafly groaned.

 

"You clamped me, you freak! Let go!" He muttered, desperately yanking.

"You Frank?" I pushed.

"Yeah! How'd you know?.." I loosened my grip, allowing him to stand up straight.

 

"Why do you come to visit Louis?" He sucked his teeth, one hand brushing off his dusty jeans.

 

"I'm his friend."

 

"Friend?"

"Yes, there is something surprising?" I again wanted to hit him. He was weaker than me, our fight just couldn't be fair.

 

"You know why he's here?" I asked, calmer.

 

"He cut his wrists. So the nurse said."

"Yes. Why did he do it?"

"I have no idea."

"Who? Who has any idea Frank? Nobody knows anything, nobody saw anything, right? If you know something, then tell me." He hesitated, as if weighing the possible answers.

 

 

"He... he was on drugs."

"You knew about this?

"Yes." He persistently avoided my glance.

"Why didn't you tell anyone? Why didn't you stop him?"

 

"I couldn't control it, man! I tried to drive him that it will lead to no good. But he wouldn't listen. I also do care, but don't blame me!" He raised his hands up.

"Why would he want to kill himself?" I asked more myself than him.

 

"I don't know. He was acting weird. Always high, it was difficult to understand when he was serious. He was worried because his mother had said, he didn't want to remember anything, but that's all."

 

 

Frank didn't tell me anything new. I couldn't help but feeling disappointed.

"I'm sorry I jumped on you." I muttered. Now was my turn to look away.

"It's nothing...Can I go now?" In his voice still sounded undisguised resentment.

  
"Yes. Yes, of course. You could... not ask." But he didn't hear me, quickly barreling to the exit.

 

  
***

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading, and let me know what you're think of this.


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